Lost Fortune
by Sabari
Summary: A clone squad that should never have been is lost and abandoned on a world they don't understand, where danger lurks around every corner. Sometimes the greatest fight is simply that of survival. And sometimes it takes a disaster to bring out the best in people. Or the worst. Inadvertently AU, non-slash/non-pairing.
1. The Hunt

**_A/N:_**  
 ** _As usual, I'm going to say this story is probably AU, though not especially intentionally so._** ** _As always, this story is completely written. As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer. Do feel free to point out typos, I check my stories before publishing, but I admit my imperfection and would welcome the opportunity to correct any mistakes I may have made.  
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 ** _Writing this story carried me through some tough times, and it's probably worth noting that this is the first story I ever finished before I got tired of writing it. Anyway, if you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it, I've done well._**

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The ridge line on the Eastern side of the dry wash had a nearly perfect line of sight. From a lying down position, one could see almost the entire wash, and the rising sun coming from behind was blinding bright to any who might cast a wary glance in the direction of the elevated spot. The wind, blowing in from the Southwest, brought only the most distant smell of rain. Rain that would, in the end, be blocked by the massive mountain range fifty miles distant. It was nothing but an empty promise. To those inhabiting this scorched land it was torture, a sufficient enough distraction to leave little room for thoughts of a potential ambush from above.

Corporal Tavis had settled into position over an hour ago. Flat against the ground, he could not be seen from below. His upper half was concealed from above by a large scrub bush, the lower half was lightly dusted with sand but not buried, so that he had full mobility should he have need of it. The scope of his rifle was covered with a thin taupe-colored cloth, so thin that his vision was not limited, there not to protect the weapon, but to prevent the scope from reflecting the sunlight and giving him away. The stock of the weapon was supported on two metal legs, whose tiny feet were sunk into the soft sand so that they had disappeared entirely from view. Tavis had both hands on the weapon, right index finger resting on the trigger guard, waiting for its cue from his brain.

He didn't move, barely breathed, staring through the rifle scope at the wash, knowing what he was looking for, knowing it was coming soon, knowing that he would have less than a second to respond, and that single action would determine whether or not his squad lived or died.

Snipers weren't supposed to do duty continuously for more than thirty minutes, as it had been determined that they could not remain fully alert and a hundred percent effective for longer than that. But there was no choice in the matter, Tavis was the only sniper the squad had. Called _Fortune Actual_ by troopers, the squad was composed of two fireteams, one led by Tavis and the other by Private (First Class) Volk, as well as the squad leader, a Sergeant whom everyone in _Fortune_ called 'Mother' (which was also his radio call sign, though whether or not that had anything to do with it was anybody's guess).

They were a total of nine men, but they were still undermanned in that they lacked the proper weapons and special training that was supposed to be a staple of GAR troop squads. They had but one sniper, who served double duty as the leader of one of the fireteams. The second fireteam was headed by a Private rather than the accustomed Corporal. Their "medic" was, in fact, a mechanic by training whose circumstances and natural abilities had led to him gaining experience. They had no walkers, and no real need for a mechanic. Their sergeant had been promoted in the field after the demise of the squad's previous leader (Mother had been head of _Fortune_ 's fireteam 2). A rookie had been added to the squad, and Volk had come to head fireteam 2. When the fireteams were split in two, fireteam 1 was called _Fortune_ while fireteam 2 was referred to as _Actual_. It was a personal blow to Volk's pride that the squad as a whole was also casually referred to as _Fortune_.

It was a good thing, Tavis thought, that line animals such as himself and his squadmates understood the tremendous strain of staying absolutely still, waiting for something to happen, knowing that the violence would be sudden, explosive, and over before they could blink, but having no idea when it would be or exactly what form it might take.

Mother and the rest of _Fortune_ were just five hundred yards distant behind him, holding, still and silent as was possible. Their ability to do so could not be overstated, but the fewer bodies in near earshot of the dry wash the better. Tavis had not even been allotted a spotter (a spotter was meant to switch places with the sniper at twenty minutes, whereupon the sniper became the spotter) because there was none to be had. Keenly, he felt the absence of that immensely important portion of a sniper team.

Body and mind began to ache from tension, muscles cried out, appealing to him to move, to relax, to shift even so slightly. But he could not, would not. And so he ignored his body's pleas for mercy, taking the measured breaths he'd practiced in training, his eye never leaving the scope as he slowly panned from one end of the wash to the other, the slightest movement changing his perspective radically.

 _There_.

Coming from the South, left of Tavis' position. The first target appeared out of the haze, closer than one might expect. Though visibility should have been excellent due to the position, the heat of the sun made distant objects appear to be wavering, like the rippling surface of a lake. It was difficult to spot real motion from the illusory. Especially when your targets were the same color as the reddish sand.

But these were solid targets. One, two, three, four of them and then more followed, but they were a solid mass, too far distant to even make an educated guess as to their numbers. Tavis keyed his radio a set number of times, a wordless signal to the squad that it was go time.

Any who might have been moving for any reason would freeze. Not one of them would move until they heard the rifle report. Tavis would not have to send a signal that it was over. A single shot would ring out, hit or miss, and the targets would scatter and flee into the heat mirages of the great plain.

The tension in his body reached screaming levels. Every instinct urged him to fire, adrenaline course through his system and demanded action, but training forbade it. He had but one shot, so it had to be a good one. He must wait, but the targets approached so slowly, their pace a meandering amble brought on by the need to conserve energy and keep body temperature down. The only reason they moved at all was that they needed to drink. The wash had but a little muddy water in it the day before, and that was now gone. The only reason the targets were coming on was that they remembered water from the day before. Once they discovered the wash was dry, they would not be back.

Finding them again might be impossible.

Tavis must not miss. He could not afford it. His squad could not afford it.

His stressed system told him he wasn't getting enough oxygen, but he knew his body was betraying him. Hyperventilation would make him dizzy, and cause his hands to shake. He resisted the impulse to breath more quickly, fiercely denying the demands of his body, knowing that the condition was brought about by the flood of adrenaline combined with his stubborn physical inaction.

Sweat poured off him, and it had only a little to do with the heat from the sun that blazed down unmercifully, its killer rays blocked only slightly by the browned bush under which he lay.

The targets were closer now. He could make out their round, nearly furless brown bodies and the small arrow heads perched atop thin necks which attached to bulky shoulders. Heavy bodied, they rocked side to side as they lumbered forth, just over half a ton apiece. Tavis had no name assigned to these creatures, but a sudden stabbing pain in his stomach told him what they were: food.

MREs had been rationed, the supplies had dwindled, and now they were gone. Tavis hadn't eaten in three days. Exhausted starvation would not be long in coming if he failed. They had thus far found none of the plant life said to be edible on this planet. Poisonous or simply indigestible, yes. The plains were rolling with dry grasses that did nothing for the clones nutritionally, but they could give you one hell of a stomachache, not to mention less pleasant symptoms. The few trees to be found were toxic, the bush under which Tavis lay was simply impossible to swallow. If you tried, you'd gag on it.

The day before, they had come upon the creatures, but had seen them too late. The animals had startled and fled. Had the area not been so dry, there would have been little chance of them returning. But they needed water to survive, and their thirst was such that they were forced to overlook the danger.

The clones themselves had been in bad shape, their water supplies having dropped dangerously low. The muddy water of the wash had been their salvation. Now, if only the arroyo had one more miracle in store. It looked very much like it did as the targets kept coming, their shapes gradually solidifying and becoming distinctly different from the surrounding land.

The targets were numbered based on the order in which they had appeared, and Tavis took aim at the second target's head. But his finger stopped at the trigger as he realized something was wrong. The top of the animal's skull was armored with heavy bone that swept out from its head to form curved horns that were roughly five feet long. He adjusted his aim to a point just behind the animal's left shoulder.

Maybe that wouldn't be a kill shot, but guaranteed the head shot would lead only to a stampede. If he aimed for the animal's eye, his shot might easily graze the downward curve of the horn. The animal might be injured, and it might die eventually, but there would be time for it to flee from harm.

A shot to where he hoped its heart was would hopefully kill it, at the very least the animal's leg might buckle under it, giving him time to make a second shot that would bring it down entirely.

He took a breath, and fired.

The explosion of noise was deafening. Literally hundreds of hooves thundered against the hard packed dirt as the animals scattered in all directions away from the sound of the shot, and also from the stricken creature, who became invisible in the dust and mob of reddish brown bodies. Tavis would get no second chance, and he wasn't sure he'd succeeded.

His frustration at not being able to see if he'd hit his target made him want to unleash a howl of frustration. He instead slowly folded the stand for his rifle, got stiffly and unsteadily to his feet, waited for the blood rushing to his head to subside and slung the weapon over his shoulder.

The animals who had fled in his direction to get away from the blood scent rolled their cow-like eyes to show the whites, bellowed their panic, whirled and galloped away. Tavis did not expect them to come uphill at him, it was too much effort and they were frightened of him. But he did not dare go down into the wash until the last of the alarmed beasts fled.

And then there was only silence.

As much as there had been noise thirty seconds before, the quiet was now absolute. Nothing stirred. Not even the wind. The dust hung in the air, seemingly motionless but in fact rapidly settling.

Tavis stepped over the lip of the ridge and slid down into the arroyo. He could see nothing through the dust. He coughed as it hit the back of his throat, he'd left his helmet on the ridge. You couldn't see through the scope properly with it on. He'd forgotten it in the heat of the moment.

That would earn him a chewing out. But maybe the sting of that might be lessened if he succeeded. And that, for the moment, was absolutely all he cared about.

His squad was dying, and the single shot he'd fired would be the deciding factor of whether they lived to fight another day or died here and now. The not knowing was almost more than he could stand, but he forced himself to walk slowly, to check his surroundings anew with every step.

A dark shape loomed ahead. It was then that he knew he'd succeeded. He didn't have to go back and key the radio in his helmet. Already he could hear the shuffling of tumbling sand as the rest of the squad came over the ridge he'd left behind, every bit as eager as he had been.

Close up, the animal stunk. It was ugly, and a gaping hole in its side had done nothing for its appearance. Already insects buzzed around the wound and the beast's lifeless staring eyes. Its thick tongue hung out of its open mouth, and the smell of its death was almost nauseating.

But it was edible, or so the reports said. It was food. And that was all that mattered.

The ecstasy of relief chased all tension from Tavis' body and he fell into a sitting position. He felt lightheaded, and more than slightly dizzy, and he knew he was probably shaking. It would subside in a minute. He just needed to breathe, and let the others do the rest of the work. He was spent, but he'd gotten the job done, and that was all that mattered in the end.

"Well done," Mother commented as he passed.

"Way to go, Cor!" exclaimed the ever excitable shiny of the bunch.

Tagging along behind him was Volk, whose demeanor was best described as stormy. It was inexplicable, but he seemed to think he was in some kind of competition with Tavis, and the verbal reminder of the differences in their rank from a member of fireteam 2 did nothing to improve his mood.

He had picked up Tavis' helmet and now threw it without warning at Tavis. Tavis caught it, which stung slightly. Volk had thrown it far harder than necessary.

"Better keep track of your equipment, moron," Volk growled, but there was little malice in his voice.

Even the stonehearted Volk could not remain cold to a brother who had just saved his life, as well as the lives of all his men. No matter how much he personally disliked that brother. Petty rivalries were unavoidable, but survival took precedence.

Tavis wasn't about to let Volk rain on his parade. He'd done it, carried out his assigned duty and made the shot, and there was nothing anybody could say or do to take that away from him, least of all Volk.

His brothers would be fed. For the moment, he cared about nothing else.


	2. Scavengers

_Why aren't they looking for us? Why is no one coming for us?_

Garm of Fireteam _Actual_ had been assigned to lookout duty while the rest of the squad (aside from Tavis) set to work cutting and preserving the meat of the slain animal. They weren't going to eat it here and now, however. In fact, they wanted to be clear of the area as soon as possible.

Ravenous though they were, the clones were not devoid of sense. Different as planets might be, where there was prey there were predators. And where there was both, there were scavengers and opportunists. The clones had limited ammunition and absolutely no support. And scavengers would arrive in droves, irresistibly drawn by the scent of fresh blood which hung in the air like a 'welcome' sign to any and all creatures of the planet who ate meat.

Garm was, as usual, restless. He pulled lookout duty more often than the others precisely because he had the capability to be almost constantly alert. Boredom didn't afflict him like the others. But today, he was particularly uneasy. His squad was vulnerable. They were in the open, cut off from others of their kind, and a very long way from their post.

Killing and eating local wildlife was a long way out of the norm, and perfectly illustrated their level of desperation. Garm cast an Eastward glance, looking back the way they'd come, but knowing there was nothing for them to return to. To the West rose the imposing mountains, which seemed to frown out at the world, disapproving and stern. Was there anything for them there? Probably not.

Garm moved restlessly along the ridge line, plagued by the feeling of being in danger but unable to see or hear it so that he might give warning to the others. Unconsciously, he bared his teeth at the dry land, daring it to send out its greatest warriors to come and face him.

His mind had returned to its relentless question, for which he had no answer. Why were they alone? Why was no one coming for them? Why was it that the only contact they'd had been somewhere over the mountains? Why had they been abandoned?

His eyes scanned the tall grasses of the plains as he thought, seeking a shape or movement that did not belong, knowing that most animals blended with their surroundings almost perfectly. He would see the outline or motion of an approaching threat before he would really 'see' it.

Something was out there. Something he couldn't see.

Garm growled to himself and adjusted the grip he had on his blaster. He shifted his position, taking another look at the plains. Wide open spaces gave him the creeping horrors. There was no real cover for a trooper, but the three foot high, pale gold grasses could conceal all manner of beasts. And Garm hated fighting wildlife. He was meant to hunt droids, to seek out and destroy mechanical monstrosities which he had a passionate disdain for, a feeling that every one of his fellow clones shared.

There was just something unnatural about combating animals. It wasn't right. He didn't like it.

A hideous cackling made him look sharply upwards. In the endless gray-blue expanse of sky was a dark shape. Garm could only make out the twelve foot leathery wingspan and at least two full sets of talons hanging beneath the uncertain body. Garm tracked the thing's movement until it flew directly into the path of the sun, at which point he was forced to look away and hope to catch sight of it once it got past that. Before that happened, another throaty chuckle sliced through the air and a second creature appeared from a distant tree it had been resting in.

"Contact!" the rookie cried, dropping to one knee and firing a single shot at the first animal he'd seen as it swooped low overhead.

"Dammit! Secure that weapon!" Volk's voice rang out.

Damyu ceased fire, but keep the muzzle of his weapon aimed at the animal he'd shot as it plummeted to the ground, where it proceeded to flail about pitifully. Garm wanted to shoot it again, put it out of its misery, but he didn't dare so long as Volk was glaring in his direction.

"We don't have munitions to waste, Private," Volk snarled, "Next time you take a shot at something, make sure you're shooting something hostile! Damn you."

Garm crept towards the downed creature as it flopped about on the ground. It was black, or nearly so. Its wings were a fine leather, the veins and bones stood out beneath the skin. The head of the thing was somewhat lumpy, with a long snout and a set of small teeth. The nostrils were set far back, near the thing's smallish eyes. The mouth said that it was a scavenger. The talons that had seemed menacing before did not appear suited to carrying prey, the legs were more like pedestals than anything. The wings were absurdly large for the animal's size, suggesting it could consume food in large quantities.

Damyu's shot had gone through the thing's left wing, which was twisted in such a way that there was no doubt but that it was broken. The creature gnashed its teeth, and a slender black tongue stabbed out as it unleashed a high pitched hissing noise. It didn't seem all that dangerous.

Garm looked up at the still circling creature, and realized it had been joined by another. Two more were fast approaching. Garm retreated to his lookout post, leaving the fallen creature to its fate.

And its fate, as it turned out, was to be eaten alive by its own kind. The moment Garm backed clear, the creatures dove like missiles onto their fallen, cackling ghoulishly, flapping wings noisily and now and then issuing out piercing shrieks that seemed to be beckoning still more to come. In moments, there was a solid mass of black wings and bodies writhing atop one another and somewhere in their midst came a tortured scream, no doubt the poor creature they were eating with such apparent glee.

Garm shuddered. Eating decaying corpses was one thing. Eating one another was something else.

But at least it was keeping them busy. The deformed looking beasts hopped about like eager goblins, alternately darting in for scraps and dancing about the outer edges of the mass, barking out disturbingly human laughter as though the whole thing were terribly funny. Sometimes a rounded head would rise above the living mass, strips of red flesh dangling from the toothy jaws.

So disgusted yet perversely fascinated by the display was he that Garm did not notice the next incoming creatures until one of them broke out of the tall grass in a rush at the feeding bird things.

It appeared to be a lizard, with legs of unusual length. It bounded towards the birds, bobbing its dragon head up and down, a low guttural hiss vibrating out of its gut. It looked better suited to hunting, so it was merely taking the opportunity. But the birds were having none of it.

As one they turned and let loose angry shrieks of their own.

The lizard backed off, it was only one and they were many. Also, it had seen something else interesting.

The wicked pale yellow eyes set in the light brown head turned upon the clones. The forked reptile tongue lashed out, tasting the air, identifying what it was seeing. _Prey_.

Now Garm dropped into a defensive position, and called out warning to his brothers as Damyu had done before. This creature _was_ aggressive. And it was not alone for long.

From out of the tall grass, they appeared like ghosts, silent apparitions with gleaming eyes and sharp tongues, fanged mouths agape in a panting grimace. And they did not come slowly or hesitantly. As a group, four launched the first strike, covering ground at astonishing speed.

Garm fired a shot, but missed. Damn, they were moving too fast and were still too far away.

Tavis and Damyu at once came to flank Garm, offering up shots of their own. It took Tavis less than ten seconds to set up his rifle, and his first shot hit one of the rushing creatures dead in the center of the chest. Its companions ignored it, but a new mass of leathery birds had gathered in the sky and fell upon the unfortunate victim of a blaster shot.

It had been a lucky shot, Garm knew. A sniper needed time to be really accurate. He couldn't expect Tavis to be lucky again, but he himself would have to wait until the lizards closed the gap further.

Strange that they did not seem upset by their dead comrade. They simply leaped over it and kept right on coming, apparently without any sort of regard for their safety. The noise and light flashes did not scare them. The birds ducked and scattered after each report, but always returned doggedly to their meal. But the lizards seemed not to care at all.

That was bad. It meant they could not be intimidated into leaving the clones alone.

As the lizards drew closer, their pebbled skin began to flush green, and the apparent leader of the pack threw its head back to extend a skin flap on its throat that flashed bright red. It lowered its head after a moment, putting the flap away, then repeated the gesture. It was attempting to frighten the clones off.

Private Caden joined Tavis, Garm and Damyu. Caden wasn't a sniper, but aside from that he was the best shot in the business. When he fired, he hit his target. Caden never fired a shot and missed. At least, not that Garm had ever seen. And Caden didn't miss now.

"Go for the leader," Tavis ordered, it was surreal how calm his voice was.

Caden aimed for the leader's head, the nose of his blaster shifting up and down in time with the animal's lope, getting the rhythm down before his finger hit the trigger. He fired, but the leader lunged sideways, evading the shot without even breaking stride. It would have to get closer for that not to be possible.

"Shit," Caden growled, "Sorry sir, bastard's too damn fast."

"Do it again," Tavis responded, eye in his scope.

Obediently, Caden lined himself up for another shot. He fired, and again the creature lunged to its left. But a second shot had followed in the same heartbeat as the first, and this one struck the animal full in the shoulder. It staggered and fell. Then it picked itself up, shook its head and roared in fury.

The fifth lizard seemed to come from out of nowhere, flinging itself upon the nearest clone without any warning cry. It had to be fully five hundred pounds, and hit Caden hard. The clone went down with a startled yelp. A squealing sound came into being as the lizard's sickle claws scraped against armor. Caden thrashed helplessly. He wasn't hurt yet, but he was pinned down.

Damyu swung his rifle from the group to the loner and back again, clearly undecided as to what he should do. Tavis looked out of the corner of his eye, and knew he couldn't take a shot without risking hitting Caden. And too, he could not abandon his tracking of the pack, not with Damyu flaking on him.

"Settle it," was what he said.

It was instruction for both Garm and Damyu. Damyu settled to watching the pack. Garm turned on the single attacker. He had been posted to lookout duty, that this animal had come so close without his noticing was a personal affront to him. He struck the beast across the skull with the butt of his rifle.

It snapped its jaws at him, but refused to give up its prize. Garm struck it again, but this time it caught his right arm in its jaws before he could pull back. The bone crushing force it applied drove him to his knees with a yell. But even as it did so, he pulled a small blaster from its holster on his hip with his free left hand. He applied the end of the barrel to the underside of the animal's head and fired.

Skull fragments, blood and brain matter went everywhere. The thing's body went limp, but its jaws still held tight as its eyes rolled back into its head and a final hiss escaped it.

"We're rollin'!" Volk's voice yelled out.

Painfully, Garm pried the lifeless jaws apart with Caden's assistance. Thus freed, he snatched up his rifle, pushed the dead lizard off Caden and set about providing covering fire for the squad's retreat. His forearm hurt like Hell, even though the teeth hadn't penetrated his armor, merely left their mark.

Once at a more secure position, Caden provided covering fire for Garm, who retreated further and then provided the same for Caden. They repeated the process until they were clear of the wash, where the rest of _Fortune_ had come to a halt.

The lizards swarmed into the arroyo, but stopped dead at the kill site. The leader cast a baleful glance at the clones several hundred yards away, but did not pursue.

The defeat had not been total. While four of the clones had bought time, the other five had worked to get as much meat off the carcass as they could possibly manage.

It would last them a couple of days anyway.

Garm glared at the lizards, growling under his breath. He did not enjoy being driven away. But more and more lizards were coming out of the grass, and the clones had to conserve what little they had, and that included weaponry. They could not waste energy, time and ammunition on lizards.

Still, clones were loath to retreat from battle, even when it was to their advantage.

Left to his own devices, Garm would have continued to fight. But those were not his orders, and orders overrode instincts on most matters, but particularly when it came to picking your battles.

"Everyone in one piece?" Mother asked, looking from one man to the next, his eyes finally lighting on Garm, "What's the damage?"

"Eh, lizard bit me," Garm replied with a shrug, "Didn't get through the armor though."

"Better let Doc look at it when we make camp anyway."

"Yes sir," Garm replied.

You didn't argue with sergeants. It simply wasn't done.

Besides, Garm's arm hurt pretty bad. His bravado was just that. Where he would normally carry his blaster two handed like any self respecting clone, Garm soon found that he was obliged to carry it with his left arm as his right wouldn't tolerate the weight.

But it was Tavis who started trailing. He'd given everything he had just to bring the prey down, and then more had been demanded of him before he'd had a proper rest.

Mother wouldn't let them rest out in the sun, and he was wise not to. They needed to find a shady spot away from the kill site to rest up and feed themselves. Until then, Garm and Tavis would simply have to endure. That was something they were fairly used to.

Unbidden, Garm took the rear, keeping a sharp eye for anything that might want to follow them.

This time, he would be ready when trouble came.


	3. Dissent

Fatigue was the great killer. It was typically thought that more troopers died from droids, tanks and the flesh and blood soldiers of the Separatists. Luck was blamed, operator error was blamed, odds were blamed, but the root cause of it all was battle fatigue. An exhausted soldier could not think, could not act, could not even follow orders nor properly employ the weapon that was such an extension of himself as to almost never be put down. A soldier suffering from fatigue was slower. Slower to think, slower to react. He made poor decisions and his timing was always off. A fatigued soldier was a dead soldier. Worse, he tended to take everyone in his vicinity with him.

 _Fortune Actual_ 's medic was a product of experience, not training. And he knew fatigue when he saw it. He knew his squad was pushing its limits, and saw that their sharpshooter had overreached his own. Even as "Doc" (he'd given up trying to tell everyone that he wasn't a doctor, wasn't even a medic) gingerly removed the armor from Garm's right arm, he had one eye on Tavis.

The Corporal wasn't acting right. He seemed only distantly aware of his surroundings, his breathing had become raspy in the last mile of the march to distant shade. An hour lying in the sun during the heat of the day (the bush he'd taken refuge under had provided concealment, but was scant shelter from the blazing sun), combined with severe tension for an extended period had produced heat exhaustion (or so the visible symptoms indicated. Doc wanted a closer look at Tavis before making a ruling on it).

He put Tavis on the back burner for now.

Garm's right arm was one big dark purple bruise from just above the wrist to just below the elbow. The swelling had been checked by the armor, but pressure had built beneath the surface. Touching it caused severe pain, though Garm did his best to grin and bear it, a faint gasp still escaped him.

"What's the prognosis?" Mother asked, hovering about like a worried hen over her chick.

Doc felt irritated by the smothering impatience of his sergeant. He also felt a bit put upon. Mother could see as much as he could, and what he saw didn't look too good. He didn't waste any words.

"Broken," he said simply.

Mother nodded, but said nothing. He didn't have to. A broken arm was serious. A trooper could not use his weapon properly with a broken arm, and you couldn't just put a band aid on it and make it better. Only time would heal the wound. Until it did, Garm was close to helpless. He had a single handed blaster but, like most clones, he was naturally right handed. He was trained to use his left, but no amount of training could make his off hand equal to his main one. And a broken arm was a terminal handicap in hand-to-hand. Not only couldn't it be used, but an adversary would also pick up on the weakness (even droids were bright enough to see that a clone was crippled) and exploit it. The pain from a healing broken arm being broken a second time was excruciating and disabling. Normally, a clone damaged in this way would be sent away from the front lines to recover. The option didn't exist here. Though the injury seemed nonfatal on the surface, there was a good chance Garm would be the first to die should a skirmish with native lifeforms or Separatists take place.

Doc felt the shudder of realization travel through Garm as he held the wounded arm and continued to inspect it. Garm knew well how vulnerable he was. And how much danger his vulnerability put the squad in. Being useless or a hindrance to your squad was a clone's worst nightmare.

Doc grimaced, but his helmet hid his expression. He decided to change the subject since Mother evidently had no intention of leaving him to his work.

"You can't do this again," Doc said.

"Come again," It was more a demand than a question.

"Corporal Tavis," Doc elaborated, nodding in the direction of Tavis, "That stunt you had him pull earlier wore him out. Do it again and you may ruin him."

Only Doc (or an actual medic) would dare speak to a sergeant in this tone. He didn't feel as though he had to explain himself, the evidence seemed to speak for itself.

Fatigue wasn't a thing that came on suddenly, it was long term. And, without rest or relief, it only got worse, not better. And Tavis wouldn't be getting relief. None of them would. The others were near their limit, Tavis had hit his like it was a brick wall.

"Exhaustion will make him a liability, not an asset. This squad cannot afford that."

Mother might have made a response, but he noticed that Volk had engaged Tavis in a verbal confrontation. That was of more immediate importance.

"One of your guys gets attacked and it's my man that gets hurt. Go figure," Volk said.

Tavis was instantly on the defensive, though he didn't have the energy for it.

"If you had been taking care of your man, mine would never have been in the field of fire."

Volk bristled at the implication, especially because there was truth to it. Damyu was poor backup. On the other hand, Volk had an adequate and equally valid retort.

"Doc's not a fighter. Besides, he's the closest thing we got to a medic," Doc belonged to fireteam 2.

"Yeah? What about _you_? Where the hell were you?!"

"I was doing my job!" Volk very nearly shouted, "You and that damned rifle had a better chance at hitting something than I did," that was also true.

Tavis opened his mouth, but never got to fire off another volley as Mother intervened.

"Sit!"

There was not a man alive who could argue with that tone of voice. Mother had mastered parental fury. And, even if the clones did not have parents, they were not immune to that tone of voice. The unexpected command had its effect too, forcing their minds to think about that instead of what they were doing so that they could comply with the request.

Both sat.

"If you were prizefighters I'd tell you to go to your corners," Mother said, his disapproving anger not abating, "But you're not, so I'll just tell you to can it."

Tavis and Volk exchanged sidelong glances, but then returned their attention to Mother.

"Now, if the two of you are quite finished measuring one another's dicks, I suggest you get your fireteams to settle in a nice shady spot and try to get some rest before nightfall. Volk, you've got first watch. I'll be taking second watch."

Tavis and Volk hesitated for the barest of seconds, not sure they'd been released from the 'sit' command from a moment before. Then both scrambled up and got to work. Or rather, to rest.

"Damn TLs," Mother grumbled, shaking his head.

Only Doc heard the remark. He understood the sentiment. Team Leaders (or TLs) had proven themselves capable of leadership and been given a promotion of sorts. But they were almost never in full command, not with a sergeant looking over their shoulders. When you were on the bottom of the pile, you ordered no one, everyone ordered you. When you were on top, you ordered everyone. When you were in the middle, you ordered some and took orders from others. And sometimes carried on fierce rivalries with your equals, vying for the favor of your sergeant.

Doc knew that it grated on Volk that he'd been promoted to team leader without also becoming a corporal. It drove him nuts that he had the same responsibilities as Tavis, but that Tavis outranked him. He hated that he could be ordered around by another team leader. And he felt it was a comment against him that Mother had not given him a field promotion to corporal when he himself had become a sergeant. He knew also that Tavis was not entirely blameless in all of this.

Like most of his kind, Tavis got irritable when he felt inadequate for the task placed before him. And when he got irritable, he got mean. And that meant lashing out, and rising to any bait put out for him. And it was evident that Tavis did feel threatened by Volk. When Mother had been in charge of fireteam 2, Volk had been his indispensable right hand. That close, if brief, association made it seem like Mother was playing favorites. Formerly friendly rivals, Mother and Tavis were still struggling to resolve their inner feelings about the shift in command structure. Mother was having to get used to giving Tavis orders, Tavis was having to follow them. The disharmony between them was beneath the surface, but it was very real. And it was most definitely a problem. One Doc had no power to solve.

Rules, regulations, chain of command. All were meant to take the human element out of things. But that was simply not possible. It was a particularly bad joke to think it would work. You couldn't have an army full of people and expect them to act like robots. The whole reason for the GAR was that troopers were smarter than droids. But they were also living things. And you couldn't just turn living things on and off like the safety on a blaster. It just wasn't doable.

"Alright, I want you to keep that arm still, okay? This is a rough patch job, but if you don't mess with it, it ought to hold long enough for your arm to heal. But only if you don't fight it."

Garm nodded his understanding and picked up the bits of armor that had been removed before meandering over to join the rest of fireteam _Actual_.

Examining his makeshift cast, Garm failed to notice what was directly ahead of him. Caden, of fireteam _Fortune_ , was thinking more about where he was going than where he was. Neither of them noticed the other until they collided. Typically, clones would ignore such a happening, or at most make some sort of sarcastic but still friendly retort.

But clones were truly exceptional at playing follow the leader. It was in their very genetic code. The conflict between the two Team Leaders had not gone unnoticed by the fireteams. And now, without so much as thinking about it, they mimicked the behavior of their respective leaders.

"Hey, watch it!" Caden snarled.

Garm rose to the challenge with a sharp retort, "You watch it, numbskull!"

Just an hour ago they had risked their lives for one another, but they now eyed each other contemptuously. Thus far, the hostility between Tavis and Volk had not impeded their ability to work as a unit, but it was doing harm to their ability to coexist. That, in turn, would lead to distrust on the battlefield. And that, Doc knew from bitter experience, would be the end of _Fortune Actual_.

He could only hope for some kind of resolution before that happened. At the moment, he wouldn't entirely object to the death of one or the other of the Team Leaders. He feared that Mother, who had rank but not experience on him, did not understand the severity of the situation.

Mother was a former fighter pilot, accustomed to working only with a gunner as part of a pair. Some wise guy noticed Mother was good with rookies and made the moronic decision to put him on the ground in charge of a fireteam, something he had never worked closely with before.

As was often the case near the front, the squad was constantly changing size and shape as deaths stacked up and replacements were funneled onto the battlefield. Onoff's name was actually a corruption of "One of Five", him being one of five clones dispatched to the post at the time he joined _Fortune_.

In any case, Mother's promotion had been rapid. Too rapid. He'd barely gotten good and settled in his leadership role on the fireteam. Why someone had decided to promote him to sergeant rather than Tavis, Doc wasn't entirely sure. He thought he had a clue though.

Mother had fewer negative incident reports in his file, the result of not having been part of a large team. Fighter pilots flew in formation, but it wasn't really the same. They lived aboard star cruisers, where meals were regular and the bedding agreeable. In short, they didn't get as irritable as ground troopers. If ground troops had the luxury of pilots, they'd be easier to get along with.

And so, Tavis was held back, a victim of circumstance. If he resented Mother's promotion, he gave little sign of it. Like any good leader, Tavis had the welfare of the squad at the top of his list. Unfortunately, he was only a clone, subject to a clone's weakness and failings. Though his attitude towards Volk was, in part, caused by the same rules that were supposed to fix such issues.

As leader of a fireteam, Volk ought to have been closer to Tavis' equal, with Tavis coming out on top as a matter of seniority more than anything. But he was Tavis' subordinate, and found himself in the position of having to answer both to Tavis and to Mother. This Volk rebelled against. He did not like taking orders from Tavis, even in Mother's absence. And Tavis, as the ranking officer, had to insist that he do so. Raised hackles were inevitable.

This was especially true in the absence of anything to vent their aggressive instincts on. They were born for combat, trained from birth to fight. They knew no gentleness, no kindness had been shown to them. Robbed of a real adversary, they turned on each other like rabid animals.

And that was on top of the whole ranking conflict.

Sooner or later, Doc was fairly certain, this conflict was going to come to blows. And it was all so unnecessary. As the leader, Mother had the right to snap the troops back in line. He had the right to say Volk must bow to Tavis' commands. He had only to say something.

Instead, he merely interrupted the fights and then left it to work itself out. He was only delaying the inevitable, and everybody knew it. At least on a subconscious level anyway. The future for _Fortune Actual_ was doomed to be violent, regardless of where they went or what happened next.

Casting a hopeless glance at the uncaring sky, Doc unconsciously asked the same question that had been plaguing Garm (and all the rest, truth be told) for some time now.

 _Why is no one looking for us? Why have we been abandoned?_


	4. Vision

Tavis awoke with a scream in his throat- a cry of alarm stopped by a mind that knew what he saw had been real, but was real no longer. The fire, the blood, the smoke, the bodies. All of it had happened as the world he knew imploded and exploded around him in chaos.

As his eyes adjusted themselves to reality, he saw that his brothers lay around him. They had been woken by his restless sleep, but they pretended that it was not so. That was their kindness to him.

Tavis sat up slowly, shaking off the last remnants of the tortured sleep that had denied him peace. It was dark now, and soon it would be time to move on. On, towards the mountains. Towards the unknown, and the somewhat suspect promise of safety that lay on the other side of it.

The night was far from silent. Wind rustled the branches of skeletal trees, whispered through the dry grasses, howled across the barren land. Animals of all shapes and sizes clucked, chirped, snarled, growled, whistled and shrieked to one another in the darkness, each sound a pinprick of the unknown, and the fear that was inherent in it. Tavis heard all of this, and more. None of it was familiar to him.

He saved his night vision equipment for when he really needed it. With the light of the moon, he could see well enough. All that a flashlight would do was destroy his night vision. And using his equipment would only drain the power pack, which was something he had not the resources to replace. His eyes saw the night world in shades of silver, gray and black, but there was little color. Things which had stood out because of their colors now became invisible because of their patterns.

This was the world into which he had been thrust unprepared, and the silence of his radio informed him that it was here he would remain, with only himself and his squad to rely on. Nobody else seemed to care whether he lived or died. Best guess, nobody even knew he was there.

Though he knew more than Garm or any of the others besides Mother, he still found himself asking why. As much as he knew, it was still not enough. As much as he could guess, still it was insufficient. He needed information in order to make good decisions. And information was in short supply.

Well, there would be no answers here. Maybe over the mountains. Maybe...

Long habit drove him to go and stand with his sergeant. He knew it was a wasted effort. Mother would not confide in him, did not know him well enough to do so. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to train together, fight together, live together and die together. But Mother was a stranger among them, was only moderately familiar with his own former fireteam. Mother was a pilot, and didn't have the experience or instincts of a ground trooper.

There should not be secrets between them, but there were. Mother would not tell Tavis what he was thinking, and there were things that Tavis could not share with his sergeant. It wasn't right. It shouldn't be like this. None of it made any sense...

Tavis let out a breath, staring into the night from beside and slightly behind his sergeant. He told himself to be calm, to take things one at a time. For now, he had only one concern and that was the land ahead. What would be a short trip for a platoon equipped with walkers was a daunting obstacle for an under-equipped and ragged squad. It wasn't just fifty miles of rough terrain.

It was fifty miles of hostile territory, full of unknown dangers. Already they had covered a lot of distance, just getting this far from their posting. It had been a long journey, and at the time they had supplies. The food gained from the kill wouldn't last long, and the water from the now dry wash was very nearly gone. There was no water between here and the mountains. Not on a straight course anyway. If they angled Southeast, it looked like there was a distant river. At least, that's what his binoculars had suggested in the afternoon before he'd settled to wait for prey.

He'd told Mother about it, but he couldn't tell what the sergeant's decision would be. Straight to the mountains, or the long way following the river? Tavis knew what he himself would choose, but would not offer up his opinion unasked. He didn't know Mother well enough for that.

Volk came silently to join them, standing so that Mother was between himself and Tavis. It ought to have made them feel stronger, two team leaders standing with their sergeant, preparing to face a long march together with a full squad behind them. But it didn't. At least, not for Tavis.

He felt only unease. Only uncertainty lay ahead. And nothing behind.

"Tavis, you mentioned a river yesterday," Mother said, his voice low.

It was unclear if he was trying not to wake the troops or if he didn't want something out there in the night to hear him. Either way, it wasn't very reassuring to Tavis.

"Yes sir, to the Southeast."

"And the mountains are to the Southwest," Mother said, as though any of them could have forgotten.

Tavis elected not to answer that, hoping Mother didn't expect him to.

"Volk, your opinion of our water supplies," Mother said after a moment.

"Not good, sir. With it cooling off, we should be able to ration it fairly well, but it won't last through the morning. Dehydration is too dangerous to risk, and you can ask Doc about that if you like."

"That won't be necessary," Mother replied, "Corporal, your fireteam has point. We'll make for the river, travel near it as long as we can, then turn towards the mountains."

"Yes sir," Tavis turned at once to rouse his men.

By his team having point, Mother simply meant that fireteam one would be ahead of fireteam two. Tavis decided to put himself on point for fireteam one, with Phisher a few yards behind, then Caden and Onoff would single file it a bit behind them. By spreading out in this way, the risks to the squad as a whole were greatly reduced. If any portion of the squad was attacked, the rest would be clear to either retreat or position themselves for a defense.

It was a thing experienced clones did. By training, they tended to bunch together, relying on sheer numbers to intimidate or render an attack ineffective. But single squads had to learn that nine men simply were not enough in a cluster. When you had only nine, you could not afford to lose even one. You had to do everything possible to preserve as much of the squad as possible, or else the whole would die. And the wise soldier knew that staying alive was the most effective battle strategy.

Point was a dangerous place to be. The clones of fireteam _Fortune_ would be taking it in turns to be on point, and it was a reasonable assumption that Mother would assign point to _Actual_ tomorrow. Reasonable because they had point last night. And so the pattern had held since the beginning. Mother was at least wise enough to keep off point himself. A sergeant had to be willing to do everything his men would do, but clones with the experience, training and disposition to lead were not as common as one might imagine. So much for them all being identical to one another.

Tavis woke his men, and joined them in checking equipment and weapons that they had checked before going to sleep. Once positive that everything was in proper working order, they wolfed down a meager breakfast and set out as directed, with Tavis and Phisher setting off first together.

"You look like Hell," Phisher remarked quietly.

"You're no great beauty yourself," Tavis shot back, but it was in kind- that is, friendly.

Relatively speaking, that is. The newest addition to fireteam _Fortune_ , Phisher's relationship with Tavis could be described as tenuous at best. But, at least, it was not openly hostile. Phisher's comment had been a statement of fact rather than an insult and while Tavis' reply was in kind, it was not without purpose. It was, Phisher decided, a defensive reaction. That said something, even to Phisher.

Tavis, he knew, was generally pretty open and laid-back. But something had the guy tied up in knots, and it wasn't just that he was tired. They were all tired, but Mother and Volk were handling it better. There was something else. Something Tavis wasn't saying.

But Phisher decided to let it go. For now.

Tavis was glad Phisher let it drop. He had been deepest inside the compound when the world had come crashing in around his ears. He knew... he wasn't sure what he knew. Something he didn't want to know. Something he didn't want to relate to Mother. Or anyone else.

Largely because he didn't want it to be true. But partially because he could not clearly recall it. That night when the walls had come down, when the fire had raged, it was mostly a blur, something out of a nightmare to be shuddered about and then left forgotten. Except he could not forget. Would never forget. Not even if he should want to.

"Damyu, stop that!" Tavis didn't have to turn back to recognize that Volk was the one yelling.

He resisted the urge to tell them to quiet it down. That was Mother's right, not his. But Mother said nothing, did not even acknowledge the exchange. Tavis felt a new wave of unease. Volk needed a reminder that the territory they were in wasn't friendly, and they would do well to stay quiet. Tavis did not take issue with the rebuke, only its volume.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and so he merely set off along his assigned course, walking upright, favoring silence and swiftness over what limited cover there was. And cover was very limited.

The grass was high, plenty high enough to conceal him if he wanted to crawl on his belly. But trees and bushes were few, scattered in clusters across the plains, probably living off some underground source of water as there would be none coming from the skies above.

Tavis paused frequently to look all around him, and to listen. His caution did not go unrewarded. One of these stops allowed him to hear the approach of a band of lizards in the grass and signal a temporary halt until the group of eight animals had passed by. Then he resumed his course, pausing only long enough to examine their tracks and commit the shape to memory.

If he ever saw those tracks again, anywhere, he would remember what it was that made them. As he filed away the information tidbit, he recalled the first night of travel, and seeing tracks like this. There had been no animals about to tell them what made those tracks, and the information files of the planet were not so complete as to include the footprints of animals. In fact, the lizards had been filed as an incomprehensible series of letters and numbers. They had no proper name.

Tavis stepped carefully over the tracks, keying his radio and speaking in a low voice, relating to those that followed what the sudden halt had been about. He didn't have to instruct them to take note of the tracks they passed, that would be as natural for them as breathing.

Normally a profoundly incurious race, clones took an inordinate amount of interest in anything that was a potential threat. Jedi who worked with them noticed this peculiarity, that a strange sound would hold no interest for them if it was distant, but a glimpse of something which might be dangerous would gather a whole crowd of curious rubberneckers. They were interested only in things of immediate or future relevance to them, and virtually nothing else as a rule.

They were also rather disinclined to look back, to think much about their past. They absorbed experience readily enough, but seldom thought back to the incidents that composed that experience. They could, if required, call a memory back in almost perfect detail, their memories were more reliable than most. But, if not called upon to remember, clones generally elected not to. Here and now was where they focused their energies, with a vague consideration of the near future as well.

That was what troubled Tavis so much about recalling the night when the world caught fire. It persistently plagued his conscious thoughts, and ruined what little sleep he was able to get. This told him that it had relevance to the present. There was something about it that he needed to remember, to understand. Something he had forgotten. Forgetting was not something he was used to.


	5. Ignorance and Instinct

Volk was aggressive. He was unforgiving of weakness and ignorance. He was harsh in his dealings with clones, vicious in fighting the enemy. In these things, he was little different from most clones. Having never been wounded, never having suffered from nightmares or indecision, Volk had no way of sympathizing with those who had. With the view built for him by those who had trained him, he saw Tavis as inexcusably weak, and unaccountably nervous.

What the others presumed to be jealousy was, in fact, a reaction to a perceived threat. Not to himself or his position, but to the welfare of the squad as a whole. And when Volk reacted, it was with frustration. Of lower rank than Tavis, Volk had no way of attempting to straighten the other out. And Mother didn't seem willing to do it either. In fact, Mother didn't appear to do much of anything.

Mother was as lost figuratively as _Fortune_ _Actual_ was literally.

Volk was not trained to be merciful or sympathetic. That would have been stupid in any case, but would have been especially so where the enemy he was trained to fight was unfeeling and without free will. There was no need to wait and see if droids would attack, there was no question. Clones were taught to take every advantage, to seek out and destroy threats without hesitation. From his birth, he had been essentially programmed for one purpose. To lash out, to go on the attack.

Normally, the aggression was kept in check by an inherent obedience to figures of authority, and the frequent outlet of actual combat, as well as the promise of future battles.

But Mother wasn't much of an authority figure. And there was no promise of a fight with Separatists here. Not this far from the front lines. In fact, there was the virtual guarantee that there would be no droids in Volk's future. Not here. His instincts and training had no outlet.

Not really understanding any of this, but blindly accepting of it, Volk felt suspicion of Tavis' every action, and a growing scorn for Mother's every order. Not to mention a disdain for his subordinates, most especially Damyu, who seemed constantly distracted and indecisive, and who also seemed to almost entirely lack the aggressive tendencies of a proper clone.

It is a fact that, if you remove a bird from its flock and paint its feathers a different color, it will be attacked upon return to the flock. This is true of multiple species. Animals have a strong drive to attack any who are different, who do not act in the accepted manner. The clones, who were all meant to be exactly alike, had the same drive. The clone who did not act like the others was often ostracized, and distrusted, counted as a potential weak link or possibly even a deserter. And clones had absolutely no love for desertion, regarding it as one of the highest crimes possible.

Tavis was not acting properly. And Volk was reacting to it. His reactions only made the difference more obvious, and the other clones began to respond accordingly. Volk didn't realize it, but he had become as much a threat to the stability of the unit as he believed Tavis to be.

Volk was using his instincts rather than his head. And they were betraying him.

 _Actual_ came across the lizard tracks long after _Fortune_ had already departed, with Mother traveling between the two as he pleased.

Examining them, Volk felt a prickle of hate that he did not entirely understand. As a GAR trooper, he was loath to retreat from anything. Clones did not tend to retreat of their own accord, nor give the order to do so. Sometimes this resulted in the destruction of whole platoons, simply because retreat was a concept they were poorly trained to understand and accept. But Volk was especially incensed at having to be cautious and practice avoidance of mere animals, scavengers that were not even proper enemies.

Irrationally, this irritation translated into anger at Tavis for making them stop and avoid the potential combat situation. If Volk had thought about it, he would have discounted the feeling. But he did not. Thinking was not something he did readily. He had not the training or the experience for it. It wasn't so much that he couldn't, as it was a skill he had not ever practiced.

It was a curious failing of the system that clones were designed to be more intelligent than droids, but then trained not to utilize that intelligence for the most part. The cost of total obedience was independent thought, the very thing they had been created to have.

And nowhere was the failing of the system more apparent than in clones like Volk.

Volk was an example of what happened when the design, program and training worked exactly as they were meant to. Thought and acceptance of individual differences had little part in him. On paper, it seemed like a good idea. But, in practice, the failings of such a system became apparent. And deadly.

Volk didn't know it, but his assignment to this squad, and this place, were a result of minds who had experience in the field, and saw that he was something they did not want in their ranks. He was relegated to a place of little significance because he was exactly what he was programmed to be. But the program was flawed. Only nobody told the programmers that.

Conversely, Mother's assignment to the squad had been brought about by minds who believed everything they read. Sending Mother to _Fortune Actual_ , and then promoting him over Tavis looked good on paper, but if any field operatives had been asked, they would have said it was the most idiotic idea they had ever heard in their lives, and then would have proceeded to laugh themselves to death in the retelling of it.

Something was very wrong with how the GAR functioned, but nobody quite knew what it was or what to do about it. And little time was spent trying to correct the problems because everyone was so busy attempting to win a war that looked like it might easily be lost. A war that they had been woefully unprepared for.

The politicians and the Jedi Order did their best, but neither group was composed of soldiers. The Jedi had some advantage over the Senate, because at least they were uncomfortably aware that they were peace keepers, and keeping the peace was a far different calling than waging war. Unfortunately, awareness of a problem was only the first step in beginning to solve it.

And there were no Jedi here.

There was, however, Mother.

And Mother knew he had problems. His problems had problems. There were so many of them that he couldn't keep track of them all, and he didn't know the source of most of them, only the symptom. In his ignorance, he chose to do nothing, hoping not to make a bad situation worse. But, being the leader, doing nothing was perhaps the worst thing he could have done.

Unlike Volk, Mother was using his head. It was what made him so good with rookies. He could remember when he was a rookie, when he hadn't known any better. And he was able to accept that not everyone was the same. Unfortunately, he disregarded his instincts, which would have served him well here. A sharp word directed at Volk would have actually reassured the team leader, and asserted Mother's unquestionable authority over the squad. But, other than the single incident earlier today, Mother had not raised his voice to any of the men. And he had chastised himself for doing so then, because it had been the direct result of losing his temper, and had therefore done more harm than good and he knew it.

In the darkness, it was easy to lose track of one another, especially where silence was the main theme of the night. New at leading a team, Volk made the mistake of assuming his men would line off in a reasonable order without direction, and Mother was absolutely no help at all when it came to that.

And so it was that, when Volk stopped to do a headcount, he realized that Damyu had strayed from the group. Perhaps he had lost sight of them in the dark. Perhaps he had followed an animal path, mistaking it for one made by his fellow clones. Or maybe he was simply lagging behind.

Volk swore under his breath, and stood still, for the first time in his life feeling indecisive. He knew that it was dangerous to pursue a new course without telling anyone what you were doing, but he was loath to reveal that he'd lost track of one of his men, fearing that it would make him seem incompetent. And, with only his own tolerance for incompetence as a reference, he was unwilling to admit it in himself.

He had to go back and look for Damyu. There was no choice in the matter. He was responsible for Damyu's life, and his death should it come to that. It was his job to look after Damyu, a fact he had been fiercely reminded of earlier by Tavis.

Still, he stayed where he was for over a minute, looking back the way they'd come, hoping Damyu would catch up, appearing out of the darkness as though he'd never been lost. That would be simpler. Then Volk could simply tell him off for getting lost, and let it go at that. But it didn't happen that way.

It is, perhaps, worth noting that Volk did not turn back to look for Damyu because he believed it would make him look bad if the rookie were to die under his watch. His motivation for doing so, and for concealing his mistake, was for the good of the unit. Damyu was a part of the squad, and must be looked after until he was "old enough" to do it himself. Volk was a poor teacher, but understood the principles of guarding the young until they gained good sense. He realized his mistake, and did not intend to make it again. For it to become known would only lead the others to distrust him, and Mother to have less faith in his abilities as leader. And that, he knew, would cause more strain than was already present in the group. But good intentions mean nothing in light of poor judgment.

Up until now, Garm had been the persistent rearguard, but his new found vulnerability had brought him in closer than usual, and he was wise enough to know that pain was a distraction. He stayed near Doc for the safety net of an additional pair of eyes.

Neither Garm nor Doc took note of Volk's stopping. Both knew it was their leader's habit to stop for a routine headcount. They knew he would eventually move up ahead of them, taking the instinctive point guard for his fireteam, and would then stop at some undetermined point to start the whole thing over again. They would not notice his absence for well over an hour. It was not their business to track his every movement, and they had quickly grown used to his habits, and did not think to check his whereabouts between expected sightings. They had other things to think about.

Up ahead, Mother was mingling with Onoff and Caden. At the lead, Phisher took over point, with Tavis dropping back to the secondary position, feeling some considerable amount of relief. All of them were tired, and perhaps not so alert as they ought to have been. And too, Volk's estimate of their water supplies had been overly generous. They were all getting thirsty, and that provided both a distraction and additional incentive to make rapid forward progress.

From the moment he turned back to find Damyu, Volk was on his own. And, with each passing moment, the distance between himself and any kind of help widened.

It was exactly the kind of opportunity predators of the night waited for...


	6. Reactions

Phisher had almost left the tall grass for the sandy banks of the river before he realized it, the change was so sudden. Desperately thirsty, the sound of the running water had been driving him nuts for what seemed like an eternity. But Phisher knew better than to break cover when he was alone.

Once relatively certain the area was free of dangers, Phisher let Tavis know he'd found the water. Tavis was not long in arriving near Phisher. He stayed right beside Phisher for just long enough to take in the scene, and then drifted a few yards, and disappeared into the grass. It was a prescribed defensive position, and Phisher could have found him easily, but stayed where he was.

Mother came next, followed closely by Caden and Onoff. Caden, having been so recently attacked without warning of any kind, was understandably nervous about the openness of the area. He said nothing, but his movements revealed that he would be reluctant to leave the cover of grass.

Mother asked about Tavis, and Phisher responded with a mere nod of his head.

A moment later, Tavis appeared from the grass, moving cautiously, aware of how exposed he was. Mother covered him, but that was small comfort. Once clear of the grass and the copse of trees which grew near the water, Tavis lifted his binoculars, and had a look around.

First, he scanned the water's edge and the surrounding brush. He didn't want something to surprise him. And then he looked down the line of the river. It was at once clear to him that, though the river wound about, taking the easiest route through the rocks and trees, it found its beginning in the mountains. They could follow the river all the way to the mountains. That should have been a good thing, but Tavis felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding.

It happened in the blink of an eye. The only thing that saved Tavis' life was catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, his own quick reflexes, and Mother's immediate response to the threat.

A dark shape exploded from the water like a rocket, and Tavis saw nothing but a gaping mouth before he was diving to the right. Mother shifted left and fired a warning shot, but the thing kept coming. A second shot grazed the beast's head and it roared, splashing back into the water and disappearing.

Having narrowly dodged, Tavis knelt absolutely still, eyes on the water, searching for the threat. He hadn't gotten a good look, and skimming the memorized information files on the planet didn't lend him a clue. The troopers who'd scouted the place hadn't come into contact with large bodies of water.

Tavis replayed the instant in his head. Long snout, sharp teeth, a pair of legs or possibly fins about halfway up the length that had come from the water. Scaly. Reptile or fish, probably. Possibly amphibian. Big enough to catch a trooper, drag him under the water and probably snap him in two. Color was undetermined, courtesy of the darkness. The shot from Mother had struck a glancing blow, suggesting a solid skull beneath the scaly skin. The eyes had glowed bright yellow, flashing and then disappearing when the beast itself did. Damn fast too, there had been time only for instinct.

"You in one piece?" Mother asked, keeping his eyes and weapon trained on the water.

Behind him, Tavis had the sense that all the others were doing the same. They had expected trouble from the land. Should have expected it of the water too. The water was unknown, undocumented. Tavis berated himself for being so careless.

"Damn," Tavis said by way of response, and eased away from the water to join the others.

"You could say that again," Caden replied, sounding shaken in spite of not having been involved.

"I didn't know there were lifeforms that big on this rock," Phisher spoke up.

"There aren't supposed to be, according to intel," Onoff supplied.

The clones then piped down. When Tavis rejoined them, Phisher gave him a thorough look, and saw the Corporal was intact, if jarred by the occurrence. And then it was time to consider this latest problem.

They hadn't seen the monster coming, there had been almost no warning. Caden thought maybe he'd seen a slight ripple before the attack, but wasn't sure and didn't say so. The thing had moved with astonishing speed, and none of them were quite sure what it looked like, only that it had been damned fast and sported a mouthful of huge cone like teeth, meant to crush more than rip.

It would not be safe to travel too close to the water. Hell, it wasn't safe to try and drink the water, or stay long enough to fill a canteen. Tavis had been a foot from the water's edge, and had not disturbed the water in any way. But they would have to take the risk. There was no choice. They must have water, and this was their only known or likely way of getting it.

Thirst, caution and common sense warred with one another, even though it was clear which one must win out. The clones were so busy observing the river that they failed to acknowledge the arrival of Doc and Garm, or the continued absence of Volk and Damyu.

"What happened?" Garm asked Phisher quietly, picking up at once the tension in the air.

"We got us a lake monster," Phisher replied, "Nearly ate the Corporal."

And instantly a hatred and suspicion of water was born. Garm settled beside Phisher, and watched the line between liquid and land. Anything that crossed was in violation of the imaginary territory marker. Garm didn't look at the water itself, knowing there was no point to that, only the drawn line. He did not attempt to solve the obvious problem, instead being content to guard until someone else did. Garm was a natural follower, and also more inclined towards guarding than active attack.

In any functioning group, there are those who want to advance the line, and those who want merely to hold it. Garm fell into the latter category. He was no less aggressive than his brothers, but the trigger for said response was different. It was his good fortune that Volk had been assigned to be team leader instead of him. Garm did not lack the ability to make quick decisions on his own, merely the inclination.

"Maybe it's nocturnal," Caden ventured at last, somewhat hopefully.

"It's worth thinking about," Tavis responded neutrally, "But I wouldn't count on it."

"Well we're not going to get much farther tonight in any case," Mother said, "So we'll pull back and find a place to hole up for the day."

The way he said it, more than the words themselves, revealed that he wanted to buy himself time to think. It's unsettling to troopers when their sergeant doesn't know what to do, and Mother concealed his inadequacies in that department very poorly. But nobody argued.

It was Tavis who did the headcount and realized who was missing.

"Where are Volk and Damyu?" he asked no one in particular.

And nobody answered, because nobody knew.

* * *

Mother's warning shot had done more than save Tavis' life. It had also, inadvertently, given Volk warning. Hearing the blaster shot, Volk turned sharply towards it- and was in time to see a living shadow sink lower into the brittle grass. He was being stalked by something. Not a lizard. Something bulkier, and probably meaner as well. A predator, not merely an opportunist.

Volk knew he had compounded his mistake in leaving the group, but it was too late for regret. Too late, he had realized that his path to the rest of the squad was cut off by an unseen enemy, who disappeared like magic into the blades of grass beside the trampled path left by the clones.

Volk did not understand the sensation that rippled through him, primarily because he had never felt it. That's how far out of his depth he was. He had been hunted by Separatist troops before, knew what it was to hide from the enemy. But whatever this was, it did not see him as an enemy. Not really. To it, he was merely a new source of food. _Prey_.

But Volk would be no easy catch. He might be alone, and might be physically weaker than the beast that stalked him, but the odds still favored him to a certain degree. He was trained to fight. To inflict severe damage upon a droid with or without aid of a weapon. And predators, as a rule, do not like being hurt. Almost any injury that impedes their hunting ability can prove fatal.

And Volk did not move in the hesitant, almost furtive manner of a prey species. His body language sent subtle signals that were universal. He was strong, confident, and ready for a confrontation. Perhaps the predator saw him as competition for the local food supply as a result.

In any case, Volk was being quietly threatened, and now he knew it.

He was tempted to fire a shot to try and scare off the threat. But he remembered clearly the lizards, who had not been the least impressed by the display of force, not even when their members were cut down. And he knew that he had no extra shots to waste. If he fired at all, it must count for something.

He would keep a wary eye on his stalker, but leave it alone. For now.

Wearily, he noted another mistake on his part. His canteen was empty. And he was a long way from the river, with an unseen adversary between him and it. And he still hadn't found Damyu, was being forced to keep backtracking, searching for the lost one. He heard a click on his radio, and something garbled.

Pausing, he tried to response, but there was only hissing static in reply. That was odd. He shouldn't be beyond range of communication. But it was in keeping with the way things had been going of late. From bad to worse. And now, they seemed to have come to worst.

Doubtless the call came from Mother, wondering where Volk had gone off to. That meant Mother had noted his absence. The fact that he could not reply was less concerning than the revelation that he was expected to. He had tried calling Damyu, but was met with silence. That could many any number of things. All of them, he knew, were bad, and he wasn't sure what reason would be the worst.

It was beginning to dawn on him that he was in deep trouble. And he was beginning to wish he had someone to get him out of it. Like most of his kind, Volk was used to moving and acting as part of a group. To be alone was unnatural for him, he had no coping mechanism in place.

Once again, he stood indecisive.

He had passed by the tracks of the lizards, and he was certain Damyu had been with the group when they passed those. Meaning he had either missed the rookie... or Damyu had left the trail. Either way, he should head back. But to turn back meant confronting his stalker. And he doubted that he'd missed Damyu, or that the rookie would leave the trail. Damyu was inexperienced, but not that foolish. Or was Volk's judgment impaired? Was his opinion of Damyu another error?

Volk shook his head irritably, but there was only one sane choice. Turn around.

* * *

A single shot had, at least temporarily, saved two clones from the jaws of death. But Damyu was not so lucky.

He had stopped longer than the others to examine the lizard tracks, not so sure of his memorization skills as his brothers. When he had looked up to see that they'd left him behind, he hurried to catch up. That is, until a motion to the right had caught his attention.

He'd frozen at once, eyes searching for a target. The thing had been resting in a large bush beside the trail. More curious than most of his kind, Damyu had moved to investigate, even to nudging it with the end of his blaster. That proved to be his undoing.

It exploded from the bush in a tornado of black wings. One of the bird things from earlier, which Damyu had decided ought to be called 'Chuckleheads' due to their eery cry. This one launched at him, and his gloves were no protection at all against the savage bite it inflicted.

The pain was instant, and excruciating. The chucklehead was mostly a scavenger, but Damyu had just learned that it was equipped with a poisonous bite, meant to hurry the dying along.

Disoriented and in agony, Damyu stumbled blindly off the trail, and into the night.

The pain was so intense that he was capable of no thought but to try and get away from it. That was the beauty of its design. And the horror of it. Moving quickly increased the flow of blood through the body, and the poison spread rapidly from the bite to the rest of him.

The chucklehead did not follow Damyu. It was not hungry, and had attacked only because it felt threatened. But it was unlikely that the creature would forget about him. And, when it was hungry, the chucklehead had a good sense of smell with which to track him down.

Damyu wandered farther and farther off the trail, sometimes doubling back on himself, lurching blindly through the grass, and finally collapsing under one of the scrawny trees that were a feature of the plains, his breath coming in labored gasps.

He did not remember who he was, or where he was, or even what had happened to him. When he heard the distant blaster shots, they meant nothing to him. Nothing but a painful sound, as all sounds were now torture. The sound of the wind in the grasses and through the trees was a nightmare he had never known before. Even insects gnawing on the dry grass were audible and irritating. The world was composed entirely of antagonizing sounds, and the pain of continuing to breathe for no reason that he could properly recall. When the radio call came to him, it meant nothing. Nothing existed but the pain. Nothing mattered but the pain. There had never been, nor would there ever be, anything but pain.

Damyu could not get up. He could not answer his brother's calls.

In the darkness, the scavenging lizards had begun to gather.


	7. Enemies

There was no order, but it would be later remembered who had begun it.

Tavis was the first to rise from his place in the grass, turning dead away from the water he and the squad needed so badly, returning to the path they had just left, retracing the steps which had taken them half the night, leaving the objective, and heading in the opposite direction to seek the brothers who had been lost. It would later be recalled that Mother had given him no cue, and put up no protest, but instead followed as meekly as a subordinate, giving Tavis the lead that was not his to take.

It was when Mother followed Tavis that the others, weary, dejected and more uncertain than ever, rose as one and allowed themselves to be led away from the one thing they wanted more than anything. If not for the monster lurking beneath the surface, it is possible they would not have followed.

Tavis did not move quickly, he had not the energy for it. But he abandoned much of his earlier caution, spending less time looking around, and more time on the move. Some instinct told him that he must hurry. Perhaps it was the sound of animals calling to one another, sending out challenging bellows and shrieks, each of them a potential threat to a lost clone.

The uncertainty which had marked his every hesitating movement up to now was gone. For the first time since the explosion of fire, he knew his place, understood his purpose, and had no doubts. The others could sense it, and rallied to him, each step they took in his wake brought them closer together in purpose, until they as one had decided. If anything stood in their way tonight, they would kill it.

Tonight, there would be no retreat. Tonight, they would perform as they had been created to, even if it was not to fight the enemy they had been designed for.

Tonight, they would fight.

Before, the traveling clones and walked single file, concealing their numbers (or, in this case, their lack of numbers). But they were not traveling now. Fanning out, they covered more ground, made harder targets of themselves, and gave themselves the greatest range of fire without risk of hitting one another. Now they were going on the attack.

* * *

Volk had turned back the way he'd come, and his stalker had turned with him, keeping itself to the darkness. He'd caught a glimpse of it. It moved upright, a massive tail balancing its body across sturdy legs, forelimbs terminating in tine-like claws. Of its head he saw nothing, perhaps because it moved so quickly and kept itself low to the ground, letting the grasses conceal it.

Volk had just caught a glimpse of a wicked, slitted eye when a noise disturbed the creature. It departed quickly, vanishing into the night, the last sight of it was a tail tip slapping at the underbrush as it turned.

Standing still and listening, it wasn't long before Volk heard the sound that had disturbed the hunter. He knew the sound at once, but it did not inspire the relief one might have imagined. Rather, he felt threatened. He was in front of the advancing line, not a part of it, and he had seen and experienced firsthand the relentless nature of clones once set on a plan of attack.

Even if they were specifically searching for him, he could easily startle them, and find himself shot. The best thing to do was stand, and be still. Sudden noise or movement could trigger a nervous clone. And one jumpy clone was all it took to cause a cascade effect of blaster fire.

Standing in the trail, in plain view and without cover, went against every instinct in Volk's body. But, for once, he ignored the instincts that typically guided him.

"Freeze!" Volk knew the command was reflexive, a habit drilled into them from their earliest training days.

If you were unsure of your target, you ordered it to remain still, or freeze. That way, you could perhaps prevent a sudden movement of a friendly when you were trying to identify them. This command had probably saved thousands of clone lives. And countless more civilian ones.

Still, Volk resented it, primarily because it was issued by Tavis, but partly because he had already been standing still in plain view. Tavis had not been required to step into his view to identify him. His rational mind knew Tavis had been moving quickly rather than cautiously, and therefore he had left cover before checking the path ahead. He knew, but did not care.

A part of him also raged that it had been Tavis who had found him, even though he had to assume this was on Mother's orders. The mind is not willingly rational, and stress combined with frustration does strange things to it. Even if we order ourselves to be rational, there are times when our minds refuse to listen. For Volk, this was one such time. And, at this time, his mind made a decision: he _hated_ Tavis.

Tavis' next words did nothing to alter that condition.

"Where's Damyu?"

Gritting his teeth, Volk turned his head slightly downward, less in shame and more in a defensive gesture. It was the one thing he did _not_ want to be asked about. Because he had to admit the truth.

"I don't know. He must have gotten lost in the dark," _I lost him_ , Volk did not add.

" _Leader_ , this is _Fortune One_ ," Tavis said into his radio, "I've found _Actual One_. No sign of _Actual Four_. Say again, _Actual One_ is found, _Actual Four_ still MIA."

Code phrasing was one of those peculiar features of the system that didn't really make much sense. To anyone besides the clones, a clone was a clone was a clone, and none of them had their nicknames on file (nor did they refer to each other by number in the field). Volk found it particularly irritating at this moment. The way it was phrased made it sound like Volk was some lost puppy that needed rescuing, when the fact of the matter was that he'd been doing fine on his own.

Mother acknowledged, and Tavis returned his attention to Volk.

"Why didn't you answer the radio call?"

"I _did_ ," Volk snapped, more harshly than intended, but less fiercely than he felt like, "Damned radio's on the fritz. Seems to be working fine now."

Wisely, Tavis decided not to question that. He might have made another blunder in asking how Volk could possibly have let the shiny rookie out of his sight, but something distracted him and he turned his head to the right, listening intently to something Volk hadn't yet heard.

When he did hear it, Volk let out a low growl. The distant snarl-hiss-shriek sounds were made by the lizards. They had found something, and were competing with each other for the prize, as well as calling more of their kind to come and join them for the feeding frenzy.

Volk headed at once towards the sound, instinct driving him as usual. He knew Damyu would not leave the trail for no reason. However, the lizards might have doubled back, and cut Damyu off. The clones did not yet know if the lizards were hunters as well as scavengers, but they did know that the lizards were dangerous to confront, and not in the least afraid of them.

Tavis paused for a beat, his reason slow to catch up with Volk's instinct. He keyed his radio, announcing the change in direction and the reason for doing so. Flanking him on either side, invisible in the tall grass, the clones rotated in their formation and followed Volk towards the sounds.

Barely a hundred yards off the trail, Volk kicked something in the dark. Tavis caught up to him as he stopped to pick it up. It was Damyu's weapon. The two team leaders exchanged a chilling look. No clone in his right mind would ever leave his weapon behind. Not even a rookie would do that. They looked for blood without really thinking about it, and not seeing any only increased their alarm.

As before, the rivalry between them was put on the back burner as they united in a common objective and slipped into behavior and attack patterns that had been trained into them from the time they were small. Shoulder to shoulder, they created the spearhead for this assault. Whatever lay ahead, they would be the first clones to "greet" it with blazing weapons.

Tavis slung Damyu's blaster over his shoulder, securing it out of his way.

It didn't take them long to reach the copse of trees, nor was it difficult to make out the forms of the lizards as they darted in to tear at the object of their interest, and then were beaten back by more dominant members of their own kind. The infighting was fierce, the lizards' claws and muzzles were bloody. Volk was the first to see and identify what they were fighting over.

Immediately, he ran at the lizards, knowing he couldn't shoot into their midst without risk of hitting Damyu. He tackled a lizard standing atop the motionless rookie, slamming his shoulder into its side. The stricken animal snarled and twisted its head to snap at him, and they rolled away into the grass.

Tavis was more practical about it. Volk's unexpected charge had momentarily scattered the lizards, allowing Tavis to get in close and secure a defensive position beside his fallen brother. Almost immediately the lizards were closing in again, but now Tavis had clear shots at them.

At last, there was an enemy he could see, and shoot back at. The battle that followed knew no logic, no reason. It went beyond instinct or experience. It was something like revenge. For being put on this planet with no enemies to fight. For being driven from their post by assailants they had not seen and could not fight back against. For being left out here alone. But it was not truly vengeance that drove home the attack. Inside the clones burned an intense desire to be in the middle of a conflict, to seek out and destroy an enemy. And, at last, here was something not predator or prey, but enemy. The fact that these were scavengers made no difference. The lizards had attacked their brethren. And that made them the enemy.

It took less than a minute for all members of _Fortune Actual_ to flood into the battle. There was no organization and the darkness made it easy to lose track of one another as well as the lizards. As individuals they protected their fallen brother, never pursuing the lizards far or allowing them close in. But as a unit they were not cohesive, or aware of each other. There were gaps in their defense, openings the lizards exploited. And there were a lot of lizards.

Now and then, the lizards would turn on a wounded one in their midst, and the clones might mistake it for one of their brothers and come to its defense, only to break off the attack in bafflement. When Garm's blaster misfired, he shifted to a knife, going for the direct attack as Volk had at the beginning. The flashes of blaster fire destroyed their night vision, and the constant noise of the lizards and blaster fire made it impossible to hear one another.

It was chaos. Complete, total, absolute chaos. What should have been a coherent attack designed to swiftly see off the lizards turned into an all night blood bath. Nobody knew where anyone was, what anybody was doing, or even if the rookie they had come to defend was alive. And the lizards, sensing the lack of organization, persisted far longer than they would have had there been a united defense.

But, at last, just before the first rays of sunlight brought color to the hellish black and white nightmare, the lizards slid back from the battlefield, and settled down to eat their dead, leaving the clones to slowly regroup around their fallen brother. Driving the lizards away completely seemed to be too much effort for them. The unity of the night was lost in the morning's light.

Volk had been the most ferocious among them, and now crouched defensively over Damyu, panting from exertion and observing his brothers' approach through glazed eyes that seemed not to recognize them. But he obviously did, or else he would not have permitted Doc to come near and examine the rookie, who was not only alive, but unharmed by the lizards.

The lizards had been seeking to eat him as prey. Rather than trying to crush bone, as they had when Garm was attacked, they had been trying to tear through the armor to get at the flesh underneath. Tooth and claw marks marred the once sleek white surface of the armor. But it had protected the clone inside.

Even so, it was clear that something was wrong. When Doc turned him on his back, Damyu let out a pained mewl that made the others cringe. It wasn't a sound clones ought to make. It wasn't even a normal cry of pain. Something about it set them on edge. So much so that Caden and Onoff actually drifted a few yards away, in direct response to the unpleasant sound. They didn't know how to respond to it, and so responded by way of avoidance.

Doc quickly determined that Damyu was not responsive, but neither was he dead. Heart rate and breathing were irregular and strained, but present. It was evident that the clone had been poisoned. But how and when, Doc didn't know. And, unfortunately, he had no "poison cure" in his medkit. It was his pronouncement that all they could do was defend their brother, and try to make him comfortable, keep him in the shade, and wait. It was not their strong suit. In fact, training dictated that they leave behind a clone who was incapable of traveling. It was their loyalty that bid them stay.

But even that was conflicted. Thirsty before, they were now desperate. They had to have water soon, or else they would die. But they could not leave Damyu, nor effectively move him.

Exhausted by the night's battle, they panted to get their breath and gazed at the trampled brown grass, now stained with red blood, mostly too tired to think, or to move.

Only Volk seemed sure of himself. It was clear he would not leave Damyu's side, and regarded everything around him as a potential threat, including the clones of his squad. He tensed at their approach, and they each decided not to push their luck, retreating to other patches of shade before the sun rose more fully and the heat of the day truly descended on them.

Neither the squad as a whole nor the individual fireteams regrouped, stringing out among the small group of trees independently, without regard for who was where.

Had Tavis persisted in the leadership role he had taken the night before, it is possible that things might have settled down. But the battle had taken the fire out of him, and he was once more bound by the chain of command, which dictated that Mother should lead them.

Mother, either as a result of exhaustion or horror, had almost entirely shut down. He stared at the plains without seeing them, and did not react to the sounds of his men moving around him.

And that meant, for the time being, there was no leadership.


	8. Mixed Fortunes

Something strange had happened. Something the clones did not think about, but sensed. A successful battle ought to have brought them together, given them confidence in their leaders and themselves. But that was not what had happened. Instead, they were fragmented, more uneasy than ever, uncomfortable around each other and nervous of their surroundings.

It was a fight that should not have occurred, though who was to blame for it in the end was unclear. Tavis had led them to the fight, but it should have been Mother. They had come for Volk, but it had been Damyu who had strayed. And each man potentially felt guilt for not having noticed that not one but two members of their squad had gone missing.

And it was not a victory.

The enemy was not dead, nor even run off. The lizards, sated by the flesh of their fallen, lay in the shade of nearby rocks, bold as brass, not in the least intimidated by the presence of the clones. Their jaws were stained mostly with the blood of their own, for the clones' armor had provided adequate protection and awareness of the lizards' savage bite had allowed them to anticipate and therefore evade any bone breaking attacks. But they had not won.

The lizards knew there was weakness among them and, though they were not hungry now, they were unwilling to abandon the potential meal. And too, the lizards probably expected the clones to behave like true animals. There was nothing they could do for Damyu, and so they should have been forced to leave him to seek food and water for themselves. All the lizards felt they had to do... was wait.

Conflicting impulses warred inside the clones. The drive to continue was strong, but loyalty to their squadmate forbade it. Thirst was an overwhelming factor, but so was exhaustion. There was no certainty that their brother would ever rise, and the mountains seemed farther away than ever.

When Tavis and the rest of fireteam _Fortune_ set out for the water, the lizards rose eagerly. But Mother and fireteam _Actual_ remained, and the lizards were neither frenzied nor ravenous enough for another confrontation, and so they lay back down with impatient hisses and discontented growls.

At Tavis' prodding, Mother had roused himself enough to decide that the squad must have water. He decided to send the stronger team for the water, ostensibly because they were likely to meet with trouble, but really it was because he couldn't see trying to pry Volk away from Damyu.

Volk did not participate in the discussion, nor did he acknowledge the departure of some of his brothers. He did, however, tense and lay a hand on his weapon when the lizards rose. He relaxed again when they lay back down, but kept a watchful eye on them nonetheless.

Most disconcerting, Volk did not glance to either side to check where the rest of his squad was. He sat leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree, almost lying down, and behaving as though he and Damyu were the only clones in existence. His almost trance-like stare was also unsettling. But the rest of the clones were too tired and dazed to take much notice of him.

Tavis came into his own when he had clear direction and unambiguous purpose. He knew where he was going, why he was going there, and what he was supposed to do when he got there. And, with Mother and fireteam _Actual_ left behind, the role of leadership fell squarely to him.

Tavis was trained to be part of a fireteam, and had not become leader of _Fortune_ by accident.

He resisted the urge to place himself on point, knowing that he could not be relied on, having expended energy being alert the night before. None of them were in decent shape to be alert, but somebody had to go on point. Tavis selected Onoff, but placed himself in the secondary position, and Phisher at the rear. It had not escaped his notice that Caden was nervous, and nerves could make one trigger-happy.

He did not point out Caden's unease, nor berate him for a coward, but instead pretended to ignore the problem, while at the same time arranging the fireteam in the best possible way to make Caden feel secure and let time settle the young clone's nerves.

Tavis actually felt somewhat relieved. The chaos of the night had purged thoughts of their former post from his mind completely, and now he was too tired to devote any brain power to anything not essential to keeping himself and the rest of the squad alive. He had no energy to waste on contemplation of past incidents that he did not understand.

His brain had, however, filed away memory of last night's battle. Later on, he would mentally go over those events, learning from them. Learning the patterns of the lizards, and the countermeasures of his squad. It was the perfect opportunity to assess the strengths and weaknesses of friend and foe alike.

For now though, he was entirely focused on the task at hand.

They made it to the water without incident, and there they stopped to regroup. Though they were testing their limits of endurance, the fireteam was thriving on this activity. It allowed them to shake off last night's events, and to work as a unit to achieve a shared goal, reassuring them of their place in the team, and their leader's ability to guide it.

Gathering into a group and then lining off and then positioning themselves strategically along the line of the water was a small thing, but it was the small things that made all the difference.

Tavis selected Phisher to go for the water, knowing that Phisher had faster reflexes than the rest of them. And, as the best shot of the bunch, Tavis chose a good lookout post for himself, and had Onoff settle down closer to Phisher. Caden remained near the trail, as rearguard.

Phisher was wary of leaving cover, and approaching the water. But he was not overly cautious, only prudent enough to check his surroundings and the water before stepping onto the sandy riverbank.

And it was a good thing too. His inspection revealed the approach of a lone animal from downriver. Staying still in cover, he watched it approach, and soon recognized it as a prey species. The same one Tavis had hunted the day before. This one was half the size of the one Tavis brought down, and it was alone. All that meant was opportunity, one too good to pass up, especially with the squad as ragged and disorganized as it had become. The chance to hunt might not present itself again anytime soon.

Phisher gave Onoff a nudge, and the clone followed his gaze. But he dared not key his radio to tell Tavis what was happening, lest the noise frighten the animal off. But he did not need to. Tavis assumed Phisher had seen something he didn't like, and was waiting for it to go away before moving out. It wasn't long before the approaching animal came into his view. He knew then that this was what had prevented Phisher from carrying out his instructions. And he knew why.

Not having eaten since the morning before, Tavis felt a keen hunger now that he thought about it. That sharp empty feeling was very likely what had made Phisher's decision for him. Had he not been hungry, he might have thought only of immediate water rather than future food.

Though there was no plan to this hunt, there was precedent for it. The water served as a barrier. The target probably could not escape that way. It wasn't designed for swimming, and the clones knew there was danger in the water. Phisher allowed the target to go past his position. At the halfway point between Phisher and Tavis, the target was in the perfect place for an ambush.

It was then that Phisher fired the shot he had lined up. The animal had astonishing reflexes. He hit the target, but only barely. However, it startled right towards Tavis, who was also lined up for a shot. He hit the unfortunate creature in the face with his shot, the horns atop its head protected it from being killed, but it bellowed in pain and staggered with the impact. Phisher took another shot, this time striking the animal in the shoulder and killing it.

Tavis and Onoff were first off the mark, immediately moving to drag the animal from the river's edge, away from the lurking "lake monster". The shots had attracted Caden's attention, but he shifted his focus back to the trail when he saw there was no danger. Phisher did not assist in dragging the heavy animal, instead keeping his eyes on the water, prepared to shoot anything that moved.

Tavis decided that they should take and preserve as much from the kill as they could, and then move to a different spot along the river to get water. The commotion might have attracted interest, and they should not stay long. The underbrush would keep the kill from prying eyes only for so long, and Tavis had already spotted a distant chucklehead wheeling above, searching for something dead to eat.

Tavis did not know of the creature's poisonous bite, or he might have been more concerned by its presence. It didn't matter, however. The bite Damyu had received had been purely defensive, the chuckleheads wanted nothing to do with healthy living things. Their interest was solely with the dead, and with hurrying the dying along to their destination.

It did not take the clones long to finish with the carcass. Tavis didn't like that two thirds of the animal could not be reasonably salvaged (they simply couldn't carry that much weight), and wasn't keen on leaving it behind. But he knew there was no other option. However, he did have the sense to eat and have his men eat. They couldn't carry more than they had on them already, but to not eat would be nothing but a waste. They did not take much time to eat, and did not eat as much as they could, knowing they must remain mobile and making themselves sick wouldn't help. Still, it did take a few minutes to cook the meat, wait for it to cool and then wolf it down. It couldn't be helped, and Tavis knew it was the wiser choice, no matter how noble going hungry might seem.

Once finished, they moved upriver to gather water, which had been their original goal.

The waiting chucklehead descended, and the smell of meat quickly attracted more of his kind.

From their new location, the clones settled down to the business of getting water. They arranged themselves again, and filled canteens without incident. The water was treated so that it would be safe to drink, and then Tavis and the others slaked their thirst, for the same reason they had eaten.

Caden was the first to hear the unfamiliar, airborne sound.

Climbing atop a mound of rocks, Tavis used binoculars and looked out over the plains. The sound was that of a high speed wind, which had picked up dry earth and was now churning it through the air. The dust storm was coming fast, a solid mass of gray-brown darkness.

"Dust storm," Tavis said, in a decisive tone.

And he was decided. The storm would be upon them inside of ten minutes, not long enough to return. And so, he chose to do the sensible thing once again. Their helmets could protect their faces from the stinging sand, but could not prevent their vision from being obscured or stop them from being blown off course. It would be too easy to become lost, and possibly separated from each other. The clones hunkered down among the rocks, and waited for the storm to blow past.

It was going to be a long wait.

With nothing better to do and with their position secured by the severity of the storm, the clones of fireteam _Fortune_ did what clones who aren't fighting do best. They slept.

* * *

Mother and fireteam _Actual_ had no warning. By the time they heard the howling wind, the storm was already upon them. If they had bothered to notice, they'd have seen the lizards burrowing into the dirt and scurrying for the shelter of the rocks. But they hadn't, and the storm took them completely by surprise, rendering them both blind and deaf almost at once.

There was nowhere for them to go, the only thing for it was to huddle together and wait it out. They were largely protected from the dust, but it wound its way into armor gaps and stuck on visors, as well as clogging the mechanisms of the clones' weapons. It was more a discomfort and nuisance than a real threat. But for the worn-out and wounded clones, it was almost more than they could bear.


	9. Laws of Nature

Onithera was a planet characterized by its vast savannas and ominous mountain ranges. Unpopulated aside from mere animals, and well inside Republic borders, it was the perfect place for experimental research. Clones assigned to guard the various facilities and compounds were largely for show, though there was a clause that stated they were in reserve should an attack on the nearest border prove overwhelming. But really, they were there because nobody much wanted them for various reasons, and also because they were naturally defensive, but not especially curious.

That meant research could go on for weeks or even months without the clones once asking what it was all about. The clones were as much in the dark about what they had been assigned to protect as what it was that had happened to them. All they knew for sure was that there had been multiple explosions, and a rain of fire, and that there had been no contact from any of the other squads stationed in the same compound, and only one contact from those on the other side of the mountains.

It was a curious feature of Onithera that the rainy season on one side of the mountains was the dry season on the other. The same winds that blew storm clouds into the region also kicked up fierce dust storms only a few miles distant. The winds of Onithera was apparently indecisive about their direction, more so than wind on any other world. Having blown the storm clouds against the mountains, the wind abruptly changed direction and brought dust storms to the area. In time, it would eventually manage to blow storm clouds from elsewhere, and there would be rain at last on this side of the mountains.

But chances were the clones would be gone before then. Assuming they survived so long.

Life on this side of the local mountain range was at its most desperate. Prey species were having to travel long distances for food and water, forcing predators to follow them or starve. The pitiful condition of most of the prey made them meager meals for hungry predators. At times like these, scavengers thrived, getting all the sustenance they needed from animals that had simply dropped in their tracks, too weak or sick to continue on.

By their desperation, it was obvious to any outside observer that the lizards were predators, but also opportunists. They weren't interested in old, rotting meat. Their digestive systems weren't equipped to deal with it. But the dying or newly dead were fair game. The need for fresh meat, combined with the scarcity of prey, bade the lizards keep a close eye on the clones, which they were sure could be eaten, if only their hard shells could be cracked open.

It was even probable that the lizards knew Damyu had been poisoned and expected him to die. Not above theft, the lizards had benefited from the chucklehead's bite before. But what they couldn't know or understand was that the bite was meant for a dying animal. It was just a nudge in the right direction (right in this case being the direction that was most advantageous to the chuckleheads), not necessarily lethal in and of itself. Damyu, though worn out from the long trek, had not been ill before being bitten. He had been, relatively speaking, quite healthy.

There was no promise of life in this, merely a chance at survival. And, with his brothers gathered around and fiercely defending him against any and all comers, that small chance became a much stronger thing. But what he needed most now, if he was to have any hope of recovery, was water. The poison, along with the heat, was dehydrating him to near lethal levels. And that was something his brothers could not defend him from. And the lizards knew it.

Driven to shelter by the storm, they had not left. Nor were they concerned that their prey might escape. Nothing in their world could travel in a dust storm, and they had no reason to think clones were any different. Aside from which, they knew that at least one clone was too sick to move. They could taste it in the air. Death was not far off, and they were content to wait for it to arrive, certain that these persistent strangers in their land would leave once death claimed their companion.

The code of survival in this harsh land dictated that the dead and dying be abandoned to their fate. Or, in the case of the lizards, eaten. None defied the laws of nature and survived.

The chuckleheads that had descended on the carcass near the river stayed there. The body and the underbrush provided adequate protection from the storm. Normally tree dwellers, the chuckleheads did not have strong enough talons to resist the wind, and so had to flatten themselves to the ground. Resilient creatures, they continued feeding despite the flying grit that tried to ruin their meal.

The wind was hot, and provided little relief from the heat of the sun overhead, and the dust was not so solid a mass as it might seem, and offered no shade for anything on the ground. But fireteam _Fortune_ was oblivious, shaded by rocky outcrops, which also protected them from the brunt of the storm. Tavis had the first relatively peaceful sleep he'd had in well over a week. The sounds of the storm interrupted the others' sleep from time to time, but Tavis was rendered immune to it by fatigue.

Fireteam _Actual_ had a harder time of it. They were poorly sheltered from the wind, and the sand seemed to come right for them. Volk seemed to regard it as some sort of enemy, his head turned tensely to watch it come from what seemed to be all directions. Garm growled without effect, and then retreated to the other side of the trees, followed by Doc and finally Mother. Volk alone remained on the side of the copse facing the storm, refusing to leave Damyu even though he could do nothing to protect his brother from this onslaught.

He felt vaguely that the whole planet was against him. He was being attacked by enemies he wasn't designed to fight, and assaulted by things he could not see. The explosions, whatever had poisoned Damyu, and now this. There was no predicting these things, and they seemed to know no reason. And he had absolutely no defense against them, which was the worst thing of all.

The storm lasted the entire morning, through the afternoon and into the evening. It was almost dark when Tavis was awakened. Not by a sound, but by its absence. The wailing wind, whistling through the trees and flattening the grasses, had abated. The world was eerily silent, the storm having stilled, but the animals not having yet left their hiding places. It was the signal for the clones to return.

Tavis gave Phisher a nudge with his boot. Phisher grumbled, and passed the kick onto Onoff, who in turn roused Caden in the same manner. They took a few seconds to come fully awake, and drank again before leaving the river, knowing it might be sometime before they could return to it, even though it was relatively nearby. You never knew what would happen next.

Caden took point on the way back, with Phisher supporting him. Onoff covered the rear. Tavis took the time to think through recent events, collect himself and gather his thoughts in order to make his report to Mother. There wasn't a lot to say about it, but reports were as much a part of clone life as breathing, no matter how short or irrelevant they might be.

Tavis found in himself a reluctance to return to the rest of the squad. It confused him, and made him uneasy. He knew the others were depending on him and _Fortune_ , and it made him feel shame for not wanting to go back, even though he ignored it and put forth no obvious hesitation about returning.

The fact was, Tavis couldn't help but notice the contrast between traveling with _Actual_ and acting on his own. It seemed that bad luck had been following them around, like _Actual_ drew it. And too, most of the stress he'd been feeling with his incomplete memory was as a result of contemplating having to tell Mother. Things had been easier, and a lot clearer, when _Fortune_ was on its own. The closest thing to misfortune that had befallen them was the sand storm, and that was more an inconvenience than a threat. They were fed, watered and rested for the first time in days.

But Tavis kept these thoughts to himself, and believed himself terribly cruel at heart to have any desire whatsoever to abandon his fellow clones. The truth was, he'd have to have been blind (figuratively speaking) not to notice the difference. And, in reality, it was loyalty to his own fireteam that made him wary, thinking (however haphazardly and unwillingly) about their welfare.

As they approached the site where they'd left the others, it was clear that something was wrong. And, for once, there was no great mystery as to what it was.

The lizards had come closer, closing in on Volk and Damyu, who were half buried in sand. Mother, Garm and Doc hadn't even roused themselves enough after the storm to shake the grit from their visors. The lizards knew opportunity when they saw it, but they were understandably cautious. Slowly, very slowly, they were learning to respect the damage these interlopers could do to them.

Caden spotted them on approach, and halted to relay it to the rest of _Fortune_ that they had a fight on their hands. Tavis was quick to line off his team, spacing them with the best range of fire, but no spaces between them that the lizards could exploit. And then they advanced, Tavis firing the first warning round at the lizard closest to the trees. It looked up with a resentful hiss.

It recognized confident, coordinated movements. Hissing and growling, the lizard decided to beat a hasty retreat. Its decision caused a ripple effect through the other lizards. In this peculiar game of psychological warfare, it was the clones that came out on top, only ever firing a single shot.

"And stay away," Onoff growled, keeping a suspicious eye on the retreating lizards while Tavis and the others turned to assist their brothers as best they could.

The gap between _Fortune_ and _Actual_ had widened perceptibly. The clones from _Fortune_ were fed, watered and rested. The clones from _Actual_ were not. What had been inconvenient for _Fortune_ had been utter misery for _Actual_. And Volk, somewhat feverish in mind, resented it. Tavis, very much in his right mind, knew there was something wrong with the picture, but refused to admit what needed to be done about it, as he was bound by the code of all GAR troopers. To serve, and to obey. Mother, for the moment, wasn't really thinking very much at all.

Food, water and rest was what Mother and _Actual_ needed most. The first two _Fortune_ provided. For the third, they provided again, this time in the form of security. Having rested, they took the watch for the night. In the morning, it was clear that most of _Actual_ was sick. The entire team was lethargic and Volk and Damyu entirely unresponsive. Mother was not much better.

It was clear that _Fortune Actual_ would not be able to travel, at least not far. The lizards had gathered once more, using the cover of darkness to make their advance. They knew weakness when they saw it.

Tavis knew that it would be necessary to move to a more protected location. The rocks near the river that had sheltered _Fortune_ seemed the best bet. It was not very far, and would be closer to the much needed water and, by proxy, potential sources of food that would come to the river to drink.

But the heat of the day was no time to travel. On the other hand, the lizards melted into the darkness of night like ghosts, and it would be difficult to defend against them and move the more incoherent members of the squad at the same time. Their numbers were simply too few to take the risk.

They had to travel in the daylight. Tavis elected to wait for the passage of afternoon, giving the ill clones time to recover somewhat, knowing that Damyu would have to be carried. And too, he knew that would be a painful experience for the rookie, who would probably cry out. His cries would attract predators and scavengers alike, and possibly drive the marauding lizards into a frenzy.

But it was necessary, as Tavis tried to explain to Mother. It was clear, however, that Mother was too out of it to be in command. There was training in the system for when a squad leader is too sick, injured or otherwise absent. The leader of fireteam one became temporary squad leader by default. Even had that not been the case, it was obvious Volk was in no shape to take command.

For the moment, he didn't even have the inclination to.

As the clones began to move around, the lizards thought they saw an opportunity. Believing that the stubborn, white shelled creatures were at last abandoning their weak members, and hoping to generate chaos by forcing them to flee, the lizards rose and advanced.

For the first time in nearly twenty four hours, Volk snapped to life. Sitting up, he had difficulty finding the blaster he'd put down next to him, and so went to the sheathed blade he carried on him. He didn't have what it took to directly engage, nor was his aim so sound as it ought to have been.

But the blade found its mark in the skull of one of the lizards, which oddly did not immediately kill it. Its squeals of agony alerted the rest of the squad to the attack, and Tavis was first and most aggressive on the defensive, pursuing the lizards more than a hundred yards from the copse of trees. Few shots were fired, they weren't worth it. Tavis was learning the rules of this chess game.

The best way to prevent an attack was to intimidate your rivals into keeping a respectful distance. It was a new concept for Tavis, who was trained to fight Separatist droids, who knew nothing of fear or respect either one. But it was a concept Tavis absorbed readily.

Instead of letting the lizards alone the moment they backed off, he continued on the offensive, even to shooting a fleeing lizard in the flank. It was a testament to the effectiveness of this ploy that its kin did not immediately turn on it, as they were too busy retreating.

Perhaps the lizards could not be driven away entirely, but they had damn well better remember that the clones had the weapons and aggression to make them turn and flee. Future encounters with this band of lizards would be nothing like the night of the battle.

The lizards had learned that the clones were dangerous, and capable of an organized assault. And too, they had imprinted the taste of what they saw as the clone leader. It had been Tavis who brought organization to the group, and his attacks had spearheaded others, making him more effective. To the lizards, Tavis was now the one to watch. So long as he was present, they would respect the invisible boundary line he had put down. In the simple minds of the lizards, Tavis was the leader of the group. The individuals were sometimes fierce, but the leader could make them organized.

When the clones moved, the lizards trailed them, but kept a respectful distance. Even the younger, more daring lizards kept away as the clones traveled as a tight knit unit, with Tavis and Garm serving as rearguard; Tavis by design, and Garm by habit.


	10. Power Play

GAR troopers are hardy by design, and actually immune and resistant to a number of diseases that the clones themselves know nothing about. The original designers knew the clones would need this hardiness to survive battles across multiple worlds, and to ensure that almost nothing would prevent them from taking part in the fighting for which they were so well designed. As a result, the clones recovered quickly with little more than rest, regular water and semi-frequent meals.

Phisher swiftly became a proficient hunter, able to spot opportunity and develop a strategy for taking advantage of it more quickly and efficiently than the others. His preferred hunting partner was Onoff, a steady clone with great patience and the heart of a lion when it came time to take action. Tavis spent the majority of his time on lookout, with other clones taking over when he needed a break. His sharp eyes and steady hands were necessary for the effective operation of the sniper rifle. Doc and Garm swiftly settled into the habit of doing the odd-jobs, collecting fuel for fire, gathering water, and so on. Those activities involved leaving the shelter of the rocks, and would have been too dangerous for any one clone to accomplish. Caden made feeble attempts at joining in the hunting and odd-jobbing, but the clones of _Actual_ wouldn't have him and the hunting partners didn't need him.

The only clones who did not do well were Damyu and Volk. It took almost three days for the poison to work itself out of Damyu's system enough for him to feed himself, and even then he was too weak to stand. Volk's vigilant protection of Damyu did not abate even then. He barely rested and hardly ate during this time. Only when Damyu was able to eat on his own did Volk begin to partake of meals.

But the extended fast and lack of any movement or rest had taken their toll and, beneath the helmet he never removed, Volk did not look much better than Damyu. During this time, his mind solidified its irrational hatred and distrust of Tavis even though interactions between them were few.

Mother kept mostly to himself, thinking about the road ahead. He confided in neither Tavis nor Volk, instead relying only on his own thoughts for the moment. He knew of the growing disharmony in his squad, but didn't have the first clue what to do about it. And so, like most people do when they don't know what to do, he ignored the problem and hoped it would go away. It didn't.

Having beaten the poison and won his life, Damyu recovered fairly quickly. The day after he started eating on his own, he began to experiment with moving around. The day after that, he was able to walk and carry on alert conversation. But it was another two days before he seemed capable of traveling any distance, though by all movement and talk he seemed game to try it.

Like most of his kind, Damyu was in perpetual competition with his brothers, and was always interested in proving his toughness and thereby his worth. He was also interested in atoning for his mistake and especially eager to redeem himself in Volk's eyes. Volk was surprisingly gentle and unusually tolerant of the rookie's antics, perhaps in attempting to atone for his own mistake. Not once in these days did he snarl the familiar "Damn you, rookie!" which was the source of Damyu's monicker. One might think he was mellowing or simply too tired to fight but for one thing. Even as he was tolerant of almost anything Damyu might decide to do, he was fiercely critical of the others, and kept his especially scathing remarks for his own subordinates.

Their ineffectualness under threat had not escaped his notice, and there was no forgiveness forthcoming for that. They were a disgrace to _Actual_ , and thus a disgrace to the squad. So Volk told them anyway. But it should have been the seething silences brought on by Tavis' presence that were most unsettling. However, these went largely unnoticed. Though there had been warning signs all along, nothing had prepared them for what happened the morning Damyu decided to tag along with Doc and Garm.

Caden was, as usual, hanging around the camp, listless and bored. Mother was nearby, but hardly taking note of the movements around him. Phisher and Onoff had returned from an unsuccessful hunt, and were consoling themselves by exchanging good natured insults. A call from Tavis sent Caden off to take over at the lookout post, and a few minutes later, Tavis entered the camp.

The explosion of violence was sudden, and what provoked it was almost wholly unclear. Perhaps Volk had been dozing and didn't recognize Tavis immediately. Or maybe, he had been waiting for the chance all along. Whatever the reason, he launched his attack without sound or warning.

The motion caused Phisher and Onoff to scatter for cover without even figuring out what it was. Mother, his back turned, didn't know what was going on until he heard the unmistakable squeak-thud of armored bodies colliding. Of them all, only Tavis seemed to expect it.

He met Volk's assault adequately, but was still knocked down. He took Volk with him, and they both struck against the rocks before hitting the dirt in a writhing, kicking mass, raising a cloud of dust that furthered the confusion of the surrounding clones because they couldn't see anything.

Animals fighting as the two clones now did tend to make a lot of noise, intimidating one another with roars, conveying their aggression with snarls and snorts. But the clones were relatively silent, or the fighting ones were anyway. Phisher and Onoff had given cries of alarm when they ducked, and now exchanged questions about what was happening and why, and if either of them could see anything.

Mother knew what was happening almost at once, and attempted to intervene. But neither Tavis nor Volk responded or seemed to even hear, and the initial strike had been on a slope, which they now rolled down. Towards the river where Doc, Garm and Damyu were. In fact, they nearly collided with the three in their pitched battle, only Garm's alertness caused him to move out of the way fast enough, with the other two following suit without knowing why.

A splash denoted the fight's arrival in the water. Only Tavis resurfaced, pinning Volk under the water.

"Let him go, Corporal!" Mother shouted, but there was more fear than authority in his voice. Tavis did not even appear to have heard him, so focused on the fight at hand was he. He suddenly pulled Volk half out of the water, one arm locked across his adversary's throat.

"Yield!" He commanded, but Volk thrashed, fighting to break free- and was dunked underwater again.

"Tay! Stop it!" Mother called out, attempting to use familiarity where authority had failed.

The rest of the squad looked on uncertainly. They were subordinate to Tavis and Volk, but also to Mother. They did not know what to do or how to react, there was nothing in their training which prepared them for this. And so, they did nothing except watch.

Tavis yanked Volk out of the water twice more, and twice more issued his fierce order. The third time, Volk stopped fighting back. Tavis let him go, dropping him in the water. He waded back to the riverbank while Volk flailed about in the water to get his head above it so he could breathe.

For a beat, nobody moved. Then the three members of Actual went into the water to retrieve their leader. Tavis paid no attention to them, nor to Mother, who glowered at him.

Something had changed. On a fundamental level, a shift had occurred. The clones were ill-equipped to understand what it was. They had nothing in their memories to tell them what had happened, or what had changed, only something inside them told them what it was, and how to react.

Violence between clones was rare, and forbidden, except in the case of attacks on deserters or spies. Ranks were assigned by orders from "on high", not taken by force. When clones fought, they were meant to do so in an effort to kill, not merely to overpower.

But neither Tavis nor Volk had drawn a weapon, or attempted to end the fight with a swift killing blow. It had been a power struggle, and Tavis had won it. And too, he had won something else. In ignoring Mother's commands, he had broken the chain that had guided his life from the time of his birth until now. Mother might be a sergeant, but Tavis would never again answer to his authority.

And neither would the other clones. On a base level, they knew that what they had been doing wasn't working. They knew that Mother's leadership was inadequate, and that the conflict between Tavis and Volk was detrimental to them. They knew they were slowly self destructing, but everything they had been taught, everything that had been hammered home repeatedly in their formal education, had prevented them from taking steps to alter their deteriorating condition.

But they were survivors. Perhaps the same genetic traits that made them resistant to many bacterias also made them adaptable, assuming adapting physically is at all related to mental adaptation. In any case, a combination of good sense, wilderness experience and instinct now altered the balance of power within the squad. And it was Volk who made the first move.

Having regained his breath, he shook off assistance. He stood for a moment, watching Tavis climb uphill to the rocks, away from the scene of battle. And, wordlessly, he followed. His body language was different now, conveying respect and... yes, even submission. Tavis had won, and Volk accepted it.

Volk's acceptance rippled through the group. _Fortune_ was naturally inclined to follow Tavis. But _Actual_ was slower to respond. Not much, merely a beat or two. And, last of all, Mother trailed after them, quietly relieved to realize (without having entirely realized it yet), that the responsibility for things he did not understand and could not cope with no longer fell to him.

Had the situation been anything other than it was, both Tavis and Volk might have been shot for their actions. But nobody in the squad was going to even suggest it. Their numbers were too few, and their situation too dire, to do something so rash.

Without a word, Tavis passed right by the rocks. Seeing first him, then the rest of the squad leaving, Caden left his lookout post. He was the only one who hadn't seen the fight. But he didn't have to. It was pretty clear who was in charge now. And the water dripping from Volk and Tavis, combined with their gasping breaths, gave him a good clue as to why it had happened.

In retrospect, the battle had been far more dangerous than anyone had realized at the time. Tavis and Volk had been focused on each other, and everyone else had been panicking about what they were doing and what ought to be done in response to it. Nobody had even thought about the "lake monster".

When the thought of what could have happened struck him, Tavis staggered sideways a step. But he recovered quickly. Clones are generally pretty accepting of the fact that they are meant to die. Death is a close companion throughout their lives. If a training accident doesn't kill them, Separatists will. The thing that really shocked Tavis was not how close he'd come to death, but the fact that he had not even considered it a possibility during the short-lived fight.

Neither he nor Volk even took lasting damage, their armor protected them from the bruising they would otherwise have inflicted, and the battering of the roll down the hill. Volk was not even nearly drowned, having given up when he realized there was no escape from Tavis, and that Tavis would not relent.

"Phisher, take point. Garm, you take the rear," Tavis said, once it was clear the others were following.

The natural partnerships that had formed did the rest. When Phisher took point, Onoff naturally moved to support him. When Garm fell back, Doc didn't let him go far alone. Damyu and Caden came alongside one another in a natural formation. Mother drifted, seeming a little out of it as his brain slowly processed everything, trying to figure where he went wrong.

Tavis and Volk walked side-by-side, as though the last weeks of animosity had never even happened.

The squad that should never have been was at last the cohesive unit squads are meant to be.

Tavis took on the leadership role, and Mother slid to fireteam _Fortune_. The clones were fast learners, and had rapidly become familiar with the various sights, sounds and even smells of the area through which they were traveling. They had learned what creatures made good hunting, and how to hunt them, which creatures were enemies, and which ones were best according deserved respect via avoidance. They had begun to regain confidence in themselves and each other, and were utterly devoted to one another, knowing that their continued survival depended upon every member of their squad.

The future was still dark, and fraught with uncertainty. But, at last, the clones of _Fortune Actual_ were united, and prepared to face it together. That, at least, gave them a fighting chance.


	11. Impasse

"We _can't_ get over the mountains."

For Mother, it was an admission of defeat. To have come so far, only to find that the mountains were too steep to get over with equipment the clones did not possess, was thoroughly discouraging. It was something he had not even considered. Clones were meant to be airdropped into battle or posting. They were not meant to travel long distances across the ground. And Mother was especially unprepared.

"Not here anyway," Volk's statement was far less bleak.

He looked to Tavis to support it. Tavis was already looking to the right, towards the river, and then to the left, where a long unbroken line of mountain range rose up.

The water was deep, the current was strong, and the clones had no experience with swimming, even aside from the monster in the river. But on the other side of the water... the mountains diminished somewhat. There might be a gap between them through which the clones might travel. If they could get across the water. The other direction was not so promising. Though it seemed passable, the mountains were high and close together as far as the eye could see, more like cliffs than anything, steep and forbidding. But there were no "lake monsters", and little chance of drowning.

Either way, they would be leaving behind their source of water, with no clue when, where or if they would see water again. And too, food would be scarce away from the water, both prey and the handful of edible plants the clones had discovered along the riverbanks.

For so long, they had been trying to just _get_ _to_ the mountains. Now they were here, their objective accomplished... but they seemed no closer to their goal. And they dared not even think of the uncertainty of the goal in and of itself. That would take the heart from them completely.

While the others rested a few yards off, Tavis conferred with his team leaders. He relied more on Volk's opinions than Mother's, because Mother tended to think things through from a pilot's perspective. However, Mother was often the temper for Volk's sometimes outlandish expectations of the abilities of the men. Volk often seemed to be of the opinion that, if he could think of it, they could do it. Especially if he could do it. If he could do something, he expected anyone to be able to, regardless of experience or physical condition or the normal limiting factors of living individuals.

So, though Tavis' next question was directed at Volk, it was actually for Mother.

"What do you think about Damyu? Could he make it across the river?"

Damyu did his best to appear fully recovered, but he wasn't fooling anyone. His breath came to him harder than the others, and twinges of pain marked nearly every movement. He tired more easily, and regained his energy more slowly. He made no complaints and concealed well, but not well enough.

"It's not that far across and, if we swim with the current instead of fighting it, we should all make it alright," Volk assessed, and Tavis found his confidence comforting, if perhaps misplaced.

Volk's study of the water was incomplete, virtually all he knew of it were old lessons and what he'd been able to understand of it on recent contact. Water was a thing clones were not meant to fight in. Sometimes above, but anyone knocked out of a hover vehicle could expect to be dead by the time he splashed down. There was a gaping hole in their education, and now they knew it.

Even so, Volk was a bright observer, as were most of his kind. Adaptability and quick learning were essential, because you could not train for every eventuality. That was fully impossible.

Tavis trusted Volk's judgment, but noted he had evaded the question.

"Damyu folds under and there won't be a one of us able to help him," Mother observed.

"So maybe he won't fold," Volk shot back, bristling.

He usually did when the capabilities of himself and his men were questioned. Especially when it came to Damyu. Mother elected to ignore his tone, responding instead to his argument.

"The kid folds at the end of a day's hike. Put more stress than that on him, and he'll cave. He doesn't have anything in reserve, he's giving all he's got already."

Mother remembered that this was essentially what Doc had told him, only in different words, and in relation to a different trooper. And Doc had been right. Pushed, Tavis would not have had the strength to accomplish his takeover, and this problem they faced now would have been Mother's.

Tavis had seemed to only be distantly listening to he exchange, but now he changed the playing field.

"Volk: tell me why we should go the long way. And Mother, tell me why we should cross the river."

The two clones shifted uncomfortably. He had just asked them to come up with reasons why they should do the opposite of what they'd just suggested. Volk clearly favored the river, Mother preferred the land route. Hadn't Tavis been listening? They wondered.

Tavis had been listening. And hadn't been fond of what he'd heard. Each had taken the matter personally. If Tavis chose one over the other, that too would be taken personally. They were attached to their recommendations. And so, Tavis demanded that they each take a second look at the option they'd discounted, forcing them to look at things from a different angle. Analyze the situation.

"River's a lot shorter route," Mother said finally, having thought about it longer than necessary, "I'd guess it would more than cut our travel time in half."

Tavis knew this, and so did Mother. A pilot, Mother hadn't even thought of the mountains as obstacles until he'd gotten up close to them. In his mind, it was just as easy to fly over them as to get to them in the first place. He now transferred that pilot's view onto the river.

"There may be a way over the mountains we can't see from here," Volk countered almost hesitantly, "And that would be easier," clones were more agreeable to climbing than swimming as a rule.

"That's a maybe," Mother came back swiftly, "We can actually see a way through across the river."

"The land is safer," Volk defended, with almost as much passion as he had put into the opposite argument, "We can't defend ourselves in the water. And we can't see what's coming up under us."

"The lizards don't swim, and they wouldn't follow us across."

The clones had seen (and absorbed the meaning of) a small pack of the lizards chasing a prey animal. In a last ditch effort to escape, the frightened beast had plunged headlong into the river. It swam poorly and was quickly swept away, but the alternative had been guaranteed death. The lizards, which had become frenzied in the extended pursuit of their quarry, refused to set even one foot in the water.

The lizards had since continued following the clones, and were especially fond of taking the spoils of a successful hunt, snatching prey in their jaws and running away. Sometimes though, they used the panic generated in herds by the clones to secure prey of their own.

"Better the lizards who respect you than the ones that don't," Volk said.

"You assume there are lizards across the river. We haven't seen any," Mother retorted.

"I assume that, wherever there are edible plants, there are creatures that eat them. And wherever there are herbivores, there are carnivores," Volk corrected.

"So," Tavis interrupted, "Does that mean you've changed your recommendations?"

Volk and Mother stopped talking, but it took them a few seconds to realize what Tavis had done. They had been accepting of their instructions without thinking, as was the habit of clones, and the result had been they had each argued strongly for a position they didn't even believe in.

"You're evil," Volk hissed, but with none of the malice that would have marked such a comment in earlier days. He still didn't like Tavis, but had to admire the man.

"We'll make camp here. We're all tired, and there's no point in going further tonight."

The clones traveled mostly in darkness, taking shelter in trees, rocks and sometimes under bushes in the intense heat of the day. It was also possible that Tavis was considering another angle. They'd seen the Lake Monster only at night, mostly early morning and late evening. It was theoretically possible that the thing did not come to the surface during daylight hours at all. If they were to cross, they should do it during the day. On the other hand, the line along the mountain was pretty barren, with shade being scarce. They didn't want to be caught in the open when the sun got up in the sky.

The truth, and what Tavis did not share with the others, was that he didn't know which way to go. He needed time to think. He didn't like either of his options, and knew things could go badly either way.

Tavis had to make a decision, to try and secure their future.

The others bedded down for the night (morning, day... whatever), but Tavis climbed up on a large boulder near the campsite and sat there, staring out at the water. His thoughts did not travel to his current problem, but instead to the deeper, more uncomfortable one.

What lay on the other side of the mountains? Not only hadn't they been briefed on anything beyond their own post, the situation was one that they didn't understand. They had been attacked, other posts might have been as well. They could be hurrying towards nothing, or disaster.

Tavis took the first watch. He knew exhaustion was his only hope at sleeping. When he slept, his mind dragged him back into the dark pit of memory, towards... something. Something he could not remember, and wasn't sure he wanted to. If his mind had blocked it out, there was probably a reason.

"What did you see, Tavis?"

Tavis was startled by the sound of Phisher's voice. He had known the question was coming, known for days. Phisher wasn't like the others. Phisher was curious, and interested in events of the past, as well as the potential of the future. He seemed to take only a passive interest in the present.

As his name implied, Phisher's greatest preoccupation was the acquisition of information through any means necessary. He was also a mean gambler, but that didn't figure here.

What did factor into it was that Phisher had a hand in Tavis' being so deep inside the compound. But Phisher hadn't seen the worst of it. He hadn't seen... what? Tavis shook his head.

"Oh come on," Phisher persisted, "You saw something, didn't you? And it's eating you up inside. What was it? Was it the research? What were they building in the lab?"

"I don't know," Tavis replied honestly, "I never got that deep. The first explosion hit before I was halfway down the hall to the elevator," _which is where you should have been instead of me,_ he did not add aloud, but his silence spoke volumes to Phisher, who was quiet for a moment.

"Things aren't always the way they should be," Phisher said.

"And I should never have been that deep inside the compound. I had no business there, no right to be there, and no reason whatsoever. I could be shot for trying to satisfy your curiosity."

"And I could be shot just for being here," Phisher returned quietly.

"I don't care," Tavis snapped, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard, "When we get out of this, you and I are done. Do you understand? I want you off my team, and out of my squad. And I'll do anything it takes to make that happen."

"You've changed," Phisher commented dryly, then added more gently, "You've gotten stronger. Freedom suits you well, my friend."

Tavis growled wordlessly, provoking an amused smirk from Phisher, who moved off to sleep. Tavis watched him go, bristling with a directionless hostility. Tavis couldn't hate Phisher, or the objectives he had. But Phisher had made his life miserable from the moment he joined _Fortune Actual_. Not in the same way Volk had, of course. There was no competition between Tavis and Phisher, only history.

But Tavis wasn't worried about Phisher for the moment. He knew Phisher would look out for the squad's best interests, and he already hunted well for them. And too, he knew that, if they ever got back to civilization, Phisher would repeat nothing of what had happened here. Least of all, what they had been doing just before the first explosions hit, just before the world turned to fire.

Tavis could trust him that far. But that didn't mean Tavis intended to tolerate him a moment longer than necessary. Phisher was too cocky, too persuasive, and simply too dangerous to be kept around. Phisher himself would not have denied it if anyone had accused him of such things.

Tavis watched as Phisher joined the clones of fireteam _Fortune_ , moving easily among them with body language that conveyed familiarity and confidence in his place. He was not the least intimidated by Tavis' threat. Phisher knew that Tavis had little power over his future, and was not worried.

Tavis returned his attention to the water. Something had moved in it.

The clones had decided to rest in a kopje -or little hill of rocks- several hundred yards from the water. Tavis didn't feel threatened by the silver flash he'd seen, knowing that he was too far from the water for anything in it to take him. But he wanted to know what it was.

In the water, there were a variety of animals (some of which could be eaten), and almost any one of them could have caused that flash. The most ominous, of course, was the Lake Monster. If it was in the area, this would be a bad place to cross the river at any time of day.

The mouth of the river was either inside the mountains or on the other side. A tunnel was cut right through the mountainside. But it was too small and treacherous to consider as a travel route.

The flicker of movement did not reappear, but that did not put Tavis' mind at ease.

Dimly, he wished he was on a battlefield, with nothing more mysterious than droids to face. This world -and this situation- was no place for soldiers.


	12. Monsoon

Garm was, perhaps, the only clone in existence who truly enjoyed guard duty. Of all the things clones were used for, guarding was generally their least favorite. It was tedium honed to a fine point, with an extra dash of monotony and utter futility mixed in. If you failed to guard, you got in trouble. Never mind the hundred other times when nothing happened. The one time you screwed up was what marked you for life. Aside from which, most clones preferred to go on the offensive, to push the enemy back from a place, rather than merely prevent them from getting into a place.

But Garm found guard duty to be incredibly satisfying. What's more, he was good at it. He was especially skilled at finding a place that was the right combination of cover, good field of view, and general comfort. The clone who was constantly having to adjust himself because of discomfort was the one who failed to notice the enemy's arrival in advance. The one who had a poor field of vision, or who had to rearrange himself to keep an eye on multiple directions was the one who got snuck up on and killed before he could sound the alarm. And cover was merely a practical matter. You needed to survive so that you could defend your post, and so that you could sound the alarm.

In this case, the rock pile was just about perfect. The way the rocks were piled atop one another gave him a high perch, provided shade from the afternoon sun, and kept him well above the local insect population, whose favorite pastime seemed to be crawling up under a clone's armor and biting him, which was a terrible nuisance because there was nothing you could do once that happened. There was no way to remove the insect without taking off one's armor, nor any way to scratch itchy bites. Garm suspected that, somewhere, on some world, that was an effective form of torture.

Clone armor had a variety of weaknesses. The armor was weak at the joints, because it had to be flexible in order for the clones to move freely. While the mask provided a filter for dust particles and the like, it was not the equivalent of scuba gear. A clone could drown (or suffocate in space) with the armor almost as easily as without. And it was not sealed. Grit, insects and dampness could get in. These were serious problems for clones, and they took any opportunity to clean and dry the interior of their armor. The exterior was less important to them. In fact, for practical purposes, dirty armor was ideal. It made great camouflage (Who was the idiot who decided armor should be white? Garm often wondered. You could see that from miles away).

In comparison with the others, Garm led a very simple existence. He was a born follower, and had never had leadership thrust upon him. He had only to carry out the assignments handed to him as best he could, and leave the decision making to other, wiser minds. His list of likes and dislikes was relatively short, he'd made it a habit to be without preference in most things.

This habit simplified his life even further. Garm liked guard duty. He liked sleeping. He was indifferent to long marches. And he was largely indifferent to the weather. The sun overhead was something to be avoided, but not disliked. In his view of the world, it simply was; good or bad, like or dislike didn't enter into it. But, if he liked guard duty, he'd come to despise the tall grasses.

Tall grass concealed things from view, and even the best lookout post was inadequate in the face of this effective cover that was all around, inescapable and unavoidable. Everything from insects to large lizards lived in that grass, but you couldn't see them because they blended so well with it. Even if you used thermal vision, the lizards did not show up.

And too, Garm knew there was some other killer out there. The thing Volk had encountered in the night. There had been no sign of the beast since. It had left no tracks, and they hadn't glimpsed it since. Still, Garm was confident that it was out there, knowing his leader had made no mistake about it.

Another concern loomed on the distant horizon. Darkness swept across the sky, turning the world as dark as night itself. Garm knew what he was seeing. But, unlike the local wildlife, he did not look forward to its arrival. The seasonal rain, the monsoon, was well on its way.

To Garm, that meant trouble. The river would flood, the ground would become treacherous, and vision would be impaired by the darkness and rain. And too, Garm did not look forward to getting soaked.

In one direction lay the river, which would swell and rage in the coming storm. In the other lay the vast open plains, where there would be no shelter from the wind, rain... or lightning.

The black cloud, miles away yet, flashed and rumbled ominously.

The storm would, he knew, be upon them before the night. What he didn't know, could not have known, was the secondary danger it would bring with it...

Less than five miles away from the clones, the predator sat beneath a rocky outcrop. Easily eight hundred pounds but built like a racer, this was a lone hunter whose power and agility ensured that it was the top predator in the area. This particular one was a female. Though covered in porcupine-like quills, this animal was more like a bird than a mammal. And, accordingly, she had laid eggs.

As was the design of her species, she laid the eggs just before the rainy season, which ensured that the chicks would be well fed when they hatched. She was an attentive mother, but her racing metabolism prevented her from remaining at the nest site constantly. The temperature of the eggs was managed by the dirt and decomposing plant matter she had built her nest with.

She had made a successful kill in the night, but it was too large to drag back to her nest, and so she remained beside it, feeding off and on through the day, then resting in the shade.

Her large oval eyes scanned constantly for scavengers and rivals from inside her long snouted head, which sat atop an S-shaped neck. In passing, she bore a resemblance to dinosaurs (if you knew what one was). But this was not a dinosaur. Her muzzle was wolfish, but did not actually possess teeth. They looked like teeth, but they were actually protrusions from a beak, curving and serrated like predator teeth, but actually a part of the muzzle itself, rather than having been attached to it. She didn't have lips to cover her faux fangs, which grew continuously like the sharp beak of a parrot, and were worn down by gnawing on bones of her kills.

Her powerful forearms were long enough that, when she crouched, they could be used as a second pair of legs. But her long fingers and alarmingly scythe-like claws were meant to kill. She could disembowel large prey. Smaller prey could be killed with a powerful swipe that either broke their spine or, if she was feeling precise, her claws could puncture the skull and go right to the brain. Instant death.

Her hind claws had the singular purpose of propelling her forward. She did not kick her prey, and could not perch atop it, though she could use her hind feet to pin it down, while her front claws and savage non-teeth did their deadly work. She was in fantastic condition, though the comfortable layer of fat over muscle that she would sport in the breeding season (which was towards the end of the rainy season), was all but gone after the drought.

She'd taken a risk, laying her eggs so close to the river. But she was young, and it had not occurred to her that the river might flood high enough to drown her chicks. She thought only of the easy access to water, which was a must for young chicks. An adult like this one could get all the water she needed from her prey, but the chicks dehydrated too easily, and needed water to drink in addition to the prey their doting mother would soon be providing them with.

In broad daylight, her dark coloration stood out. She was a dark, smoky gray, with ringlets and bands of black across her body. She was invisible in the dark, but rather conspicuous during the day.

As a chick, she had burrowed, using her strong back claws to dig. As a teenager, roaming far from her mother, she had become a tree dweller. She had spent many days sleeping in tree branches, and had carried her kills up into them. Now, a fully grown adult, she had little fear from anything. She could climb trees in an emergency, but was too big and heavy to do it routinely. And her prey these days was certainly too large to be carried up into trees. That was the price of being the biggest predator.

She also had another secret protection. Or weapon, depending on how you looked at it. Her body was covered in thick spikes, that protected tender flesh from harm and discouraged paws and mouths from attacking her. But she also had monstrous wings. As a youngster, she had been capable of short flights, from the ground to a tree branch. More an extended leap, really. Now, those wings could unfold to protect her head from injury, to shield her prey from scavengers, and to guard chicks. Those wings were like armor plating and, though she didn't know it, would provide some protection from blaster fire. And, while those spikes couldn't pierce armor, they could prevent a shot from blaster or cut from blade from reaching the skin and bone beneath.

She did not worry about her eggs. They could only be discovered by chance, and few things were active in the heat of the day. But the shift in temperature that would be brought on by the rain would change everything. The cooling temperature would be dangerous for the eggs. As soon as she felt it, it would trigger the predator's instinct to return to her nest and rearrange it to keep the eggs warm instead of cool. And the increased dampness of the soil was the trigger that would cause the eggs to hatch, an event the mother must be there for if she wanted the babies to imprint on her.

Garm knew nothing of this, just as the predator knew nothing of him. The little mound of dirt near the base of the kopje didn't mean anything to him, or to any of the clones. They did not recognize it as a nest, merely an oddity. But, since it didn't appear to be a threat, they did not investigate.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the storm swept in. There was no precursor to the deluge. One moment it was hot, sunny and dry. The next, it was black, and water poured in buckets from the sky. Thunder roared in deafening fury, lightning cut across the sky like a blade of light.

Darkness closed around, and the sheets of rain didn't help any. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Everything became a shapeless, uniform shade of gray.

Garm grumbled to himself, and shrank back into the protection of the rock roof. The wind blew rain into his shelter, and he got wet in spite of his attempts to avoid it.

But worse was the fact that he could not see. The plains were an indistinct mass, and there was no visual cue as to whether he was looking at the grass, the mountains or the sky. Everything was the same. Garm became uneasy. For the first time, he wasn't happy guarding. For the first time, there was nothing in his instinctive or trained repertoire that could help him. He was effectively blind and deaf to any encroaching threat, just as he'd been in the sand storm.

The sudden drop in temperature, combined with the rumbling thunder and rain woke the others. There was no escape from the rain, and they could just barely make out the clone an inch or two away from them. They moved closer together, and Garm quickly joined the group. A lookout was useless now.

Backs against the rocks, beneath a shelter of the same, the clones shrank together until they were firmly wedged, with a clone facing in every possible direction of threat. And then they settled down again.

They knew nothing of the black spotted predator, and didn't have a clue that their chosen position placed them squarely between the young mother and her clutch of eggs. And, unlike them, she was not blind in this storm. A bony ridge over her eyes kept water out of them, and she didn't have any visor that would become streaked with the rain.

She could see, and She was coming for her eggs.


	13. She

The clones were not unduly upset by the storm. It certainly presented its difficulties, there was no question about that. But the clones had been designed, brought into being, raised and trained on a world whose one geological feature was water, and whose entire ecosystem was under said water. The clones themselves were not aquatic- far from it -but the notion of rain falling in quantity from the sky was not as upsetting to them as it otherwise might have been.

While they found dampness uncomfortable, it also reminded them distantly of the day they left home, or what they thought of as being their home anyway. Raised and trained indoors, they'd had little contact with the rain-soaked world in which they lived until the day they left, marching off to a ship and the war they'd been preparing for their entire lives.

It was with mixed feelings that they remembered that momentous (for them) occasion. They did not often think back, but now the rain left them little other choice.

They'd each felt so accomplished, having finished their training. That, in itself, was no small thing. Not every clone graduated. Not every clone even survived so long. Training was a dangerous endeavor. And failing, even more so. Having finished training, they felt ready to take on the world, all by themselves. They were confident in their abilities, felt secure among their identical brothers, and sure of their goal.

And, somehow, they had all wound up here. Far from the war. No longer sure of themselves, having discovered that brothers and training alike could betray you. Their past had not prepared them for this. The all-knowing powers that were, people whom they had never met, who guided their lives and gave them their orders... had sent them here.

Each worked through the myriad questions, thoughts and emotions generated by these memories, the frame by frame recollection of their lives in his own way. For one of them it was easy, because he had lost his faith in the system long ago.

The moment of quiet reflection was to be short-lived.

A furious shriek-roaring split the night, a sound that didn't belong to the storm, even seemed to be competing with it in volume and ferocity. The clones responded, turning their heads toward the sound, trying to see through the sheets of rain, to make out what the thing was.

Phisher saw it first. He'd gotten pretty good at spotting animal motion. Having spotted the target, he fired a shot. Unfortunately, the rain hindered his vision to such a degree that he couldn't see how fast the animal was moving in his direction. His first shot missed, but was answered by a challenging roar. And it was then that his blaster rifle died.

It had been nearly depleted for some time, and he had done far more shooting than the others, joining in defending when necessary as well as hunting. He swore, and flinched at the muzzle flash of a blaster right next to his head. Onoff had, as usual, been waiting for him to make a shot, prepared to shoot if Phisher missed. But he had the same angle of attack in this case, and could only guess where his target was based off of Phisher's aim. He had also gotten used to shooting things that moved away, and his prior training had been with things that tended to stand relatively still and shoot back. If he hit the beast at all, She gave no sign. In another moment, She had covered the distance to where the clones huddled.

Her roar had been meant to scatter them. She was desperate to save her eggs, and didn't want to fight if a simple scare tactic would work. She needed to bury them deeper in the dirt to keep them warm, and to make adjustments to the nest so that air holes didn't get plugged up with water. She had better things to do than fight. She needed for this to be over _now_. When the clones failed to retreat at the sound of her threatening roar, She knew a fight was inevitable. If they would not be intimidated into flight, She would have to kill every last one of them to protect her eggs, the future of her kind.

Instinct guided her. She didn't know what these things were, but She had stalked them more than once, and seen their ability to spit something deadly at the lizard pack and other animals. She was smart, as any successful predator must be. She didn't even have to learn from her own mistakes, but was capable of furthering her education through observation of others. For five seasonal cycles, She had followed her mother about, learning of her world not only through her own play, but also from her mother's interactions with flora and fauna. It was in her nature to hunt, in her design to kill. But it was the teaching of her mother that made her most proficient.

The clones had not seen her most of the time, but She had seen them. She had picked out the weakest of them for future reference, but deemed them too dangerous to hunt. She was not just a lone predator, but one expecting chicks. She could not afford to take unnecessary risks. Now her knowledge came into play. But She was not hunting for food. Rather than pick the weakest, She went for the one who was most aggressive, and therefore most dangerous to her. Her large brain even considered the possibility that the others would flee if She proved effective at killing them.

She leaped onto one, knocking him back, at the same time sweeping sideways with her tail, forcing them to abandon their defensive circle. Her claws raked down the thigh of her target, but the only squealing was from the tough hide they were encased in, and She knew it.

She had seen the lizards tugging at the armor, had actually been there the night the clones came to the defense of their fallen. She knew they had a hard shell, but had not the experience to know exactly how hard that shell really was. Now She knew. She didn't have to look to know her claws had dug deep. She had the power to cut through the shell. That was good. It meant She wouldn't have to spend critical time trying to flip them and get to the weak spots.

There was a species of prey that sported a hard shell that she was unable to crack. The shells extended from head to tail, and the only way to kill the creatures was to flip them over and slash their throats. They were difficult and dangerous prey, larger and stronger than what She now faced. But that prey was stupid, and slow to react, and its only solution to any difficulty was to hunker down and try not to get turned over. These adversaries reacted with intelligence and quickness.

She prepared to take another swipe at her pinned victim, but something unexpected happened. Her wings were down, folded around her head and prey. But something tugged at her right wing. It was unexpected, unprecedented in fact. Her spikes made it impossible for anything to paw or mouth her wings. The strong wing was yanked back, and She saw that one of the clones that had been unsuccessfully trying to shoot through her wing now prepared to take a shot at her vulnerable head.

Roaring, She straightened up, rearing to her full height, and struck out with her left front claws. Her claws raked down this one's face, which She was surprised to find was as heavily armored as the body. Even so, She elicited a cry of pain from it, and the scent of blood filled the air, only to be quickly drowned in the rain. But She had succeeded in cutting through the shell. It could be done.

Unfortunately, her first victim had rolled clear the moment She let him go, and now She had adversaries on all sides, and they understood the nature of her protective wings and could for some reason pull on them. Their front paws must be armored too. She had never encountered anything like that. But she accepted it as a matter of course, as She accepted everything about these strange intruders.

She was much faster than they were, and they seemed blinded by the rain. They issued loud calls to one another, and milled around, seeking opportunity to attack an unprotected area. Her large wings actually were beginning to smart from the painful attacks, yet another thing that had never happened before.

She roared, snarled, flapped her wings, churning air and water, beating back her adversaries and swiping at them in the dark. Her speed and aggression, combined with the disorientation and blindness they appeared to be suffering from, kept them in disarray. Their calls were urgent, demanding, but chaotic. They had no planned defense. She did not think about the possibility that they had never encountered anything like her before. She had never seen them, but assumed they were a part of this world. And her kind was successful. They must have met with her kind before. Their responses to her were idiotic and made no sense. No wonder they were so rare.

She was not amused. Nor was she especially interested in learning more about these things. Except how to rid herself of them. Surely they were aware that She could cut through their shells, She was positive She had blinded one of them, She could not understand why they continued to attack. It was suicidal. Only parents attempting to protect young would take risks in battle like this.

But these were all males. The males of her kind were death on offspring. They could be part of an effective hunting pair during the breeding season, and pregnancy. Pregnancy increased demands on a female's body, and being part of a pair was more effective than hunting alone. But when it came time to lay eggs and raise chicks, the males were to be avoided or, if necessary, savagely attacked. There was nothing in her genetics which told her males might protect offspring.

What She didn't understand was that the clones were, in fact, doing something quite intelligent. She had attacked them out of nowhere, and they knew She could outrun them. They did not know She was defending eggs, but assumed She wanted to kill them, maybe even eat them. They stood their ground because they expected to be pursued if they attempted to flee. And, perhaps, their aggressive drives and born-in hatred of retreating had something to do with it too.

But there was another set of players in this drama. The lizards, which had been trailing after the clones for days, had been attracted by the sounds of ferocious battle. They knew the sound of an enraged mother, and would normally have fled as such rage was typically directed at them.

This was not a novel situation for them, however. They were eager egg stealers, not just because eggs were a great source of food, but also because they were essentially programmed to eliminate predatory competition, and She's kind was very much a competitor for food. Her kind and the lizards were in a constant struggle for the same food and territory. They were rivals, and always ready to kill each other's young. The lizards knew the mother was a fearsome adversary, and their numbers at present were too meager to attack her directly. But She was distracted by another threat, and might not even notice the lizards if they stole in and robbed the hidden nest of its treasures. They had not known the nest was there, hidden as it was among the rocks and low shrubs. But the sound of mother defense told them that a nest had to be nearby, and they were quick to locate it. And then, they made a fatal mistake. A youngster let out a call of triumph.

The mother realized that her nest was now under direct attack. She could see the lizards sliding around in the mud near the nest, one was even up on the mound, tearing into it with strong front claws. With a shriek, She lunged for the clone in her way, flattening him with her body weight.

She felt a sharp pain in one of her legs, the clone had attacked her with a blade. Her response was swift and decisive. She swiped with one front paw, and her razor sharp claws cut the offensive creature's head from its body. She leaped past it without pause, and renewed her furious roaring.

The severed head, still inside its helmet, rolled across the rain slick rocks. The clones didn't know who was injured and who was dead, but one of them issued out a command that the rest followed. To the river, now that they'd been given an opening.

She did not notice them leave, swinging wildly at the lizards, roaring, snapping her jaws, scattering them into the night, standing over her nest, shielding it with her powerful wings; wings that the lizards did not have the ability to combat. The lizards slunk away, hissing, one had red blood on its jaws.

She bent over the nest, counted the eggs. One was missing, but the other three were intact. That was fine. Typically, only one or two chicks from any given breeding survived into teenage independence. And fewer than that reached adulthood. She was a devoted and skilled mother, but the world was a dangerous place for small, helpless creatures such as her babies were now and would still be when they finally hatched. For now though, they were safe. And, She noticed, there was a source of food nearby. When the chicks hatched, she would be able to feed them from scraps of the kill. It made no difference to her that it was a kill resulting not from a hunt, but from a pitched battle to protect her offspring. Meat was meat and, though She preferred herbivores to carnivores, She was in no position to be picky.


	14. Scattered

Rain poured down from the sky. Thunder rumbled, seemingly directly overhead. Lightning flashed brilliantly across the sky, then was gone, leaving the world in darkness. If it had seemed dark before, now everything was black in the night, except when it was seared with white at the touch of lightning.

The exhausted clone had been dragged miles downriver by the rough current, half-drowned by the churning water. The current, the rain, and the waters made choppy by the fierce wind had all served to destroy his sense of direction, including whether he was up or down. At one point, he'd been trying to find the surface, only to be met with the rocky bottom of the river.

It had been night when he had at last dragged his battered, bruised self from the river. He had then been defeated by the muddy banks. Too dizzy to stand, he'd crawled out on hands and knees, and sunk in wet sand up to his elbows. He'd struggled to free himself, but eventually fallen over on his side and given up. It was after midnight when he finally roused himself enough to take stock of surroundings and self.

Caden had no appreciation for how well the clones had done in the fight. Their coordination and timing had been spot on. He had no feeling of accomplishment at having survived the combat, had no real understanding of how easily every single one of them could have lost their lives if even one individual had mistimed an attack, or accidentally hit one of his brothers instead of the enemy.

He knew only that a shadow from Hell had attacked them, and torn them apart. He knew he had nearly drowned in the water. And too, he knew that he was now alone. It had taken several minutes to cough and clear his throat and lungs enough to call out. Nobody replied. His radio, whose functioning had been sketchy at the best of times, was shorted out by the water. It was resistant to rain, but complete submersion, combined with being pounded on by rocks and debris, had finished it off.

Caden was cold. The river water was freezing, and the howling wind had snatched at his body heat, and now he shivered. Not very effectively. He was too tired to shiver properly. He knew he was in danger of dying on the spot. He had to get out of the wind, and preferably dried off.

The habits and coordination of the unit had worked against Caden when the clones retreated to the water. Most of the clones paired off, keeping close to their partner and helping one another tell up from down, aiding injured clones. But Caden had no partner. Nobody had helped him.

He didn't resent that. Fact was, he wasn't even aware of it. He knew only of his immediate situation. And that was cold, wet, tired and very much alone in unknown territory.

But, aside from bruising, Caden was unhurt. He realized he was lucky to have survived, and fully aware that at least one of his squadmates had not been so lucky. It troubled him in a vague kind of way that he didn't know which one it was, but that was of less import than his immediate situation.

Wearily, he tugged against the sucking mud. It was surprisingly easy to break free. Earlier it had seemed impossible. Dragging himself up to more solid ground, Caden realized with horror that something was missing. In the chaos of the river, he'd lost his blaster rifle. He had a pistol secured in a holster, and still possessed a blade, but the rifle was gone. The horror was not in his own helplessness, he could still defend himself adequately, but in the loss of a valuable piece of hardware.

Caden had been educated that his equipment was more valuable than he was. He was never to misuse it, and losing it was a crime for which there could be no excuse. Still, there was no getting it back.

Caden sighed, and eased himself into a sitting position next to a large bush, which provided some shelter from the wind, if not the rain. He hurt. Literally everything hurt. It wasn't blinding or especially intense, but a steady kind of pain which throbbed all through him. He felt like he'd lost a boxing match.

Worse than that, he knew he'd lost his squad. And he wasn't quite sure how to find them.

* * *

Far up river, Onoff was in a similar predicament. Similar, but not exactly the same. He still had his blaster, courtesy of Phisher. Onoff hadn't been sure what happened to Phisher, only that his brother was uncoordinated and apparently didn't know one direction from another.

Via shouting and shoving, Onoff had bullied Phisher into the water, and then been obliged to mostly tow his brother across. Phisher wasn't entirely out of it, and swam willingly in the direction Onoff aimed him, but crashing waves and debris time and again forced them under, and Phisher seemed to have no way of recovering from these disorienting blows.

At last, Onoff had dropped his blaster in favor of hanging onto Phisher. Phisher had caught it when it bumped against him on the way down to the bottom of the river, and held onto it. As he was doing less of the work swimming, he was able to hold onto it as well as his own.

Onoff knew Phisher was hurt, but it wasn't until they'd gotten to the other side, coughed up a lot of water and caught their breath that he was able to try and find out what was wrong. Using the light on his rifle, Onoff looked Phisher over. It wasn't hard to guess what the problem was.

The shine of the light caught the jagged edges of the gashed helmet. At first, Onoff thought Phisher had actually lost an eye, but the cut had barely missed his right eye, cutting a line down Phisher's face from temple to chin. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and blinded Phisher. Additionally, the throbbing pain in his head and the loss of blood seemed to have made him less coherent.

"Damn. That was close," Onoff said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"Bad?" Phisher managed to ask through the ringing in his ears and the fog in his brain.

"Nah," Onoff replied, though he really hadn't a clue, "You just sprung a leak is all. Must hurt like blazes though."

"Stings a bit," Phisher admitted.

Talking made the pain in his head worse, though he was too out of it to fully understand why. The open wound itself felt totally numb, but the raw tissue around it felt like it was on fire. Phisher didn't know the extent of his injury, being as he couldn't see his own face, but he didn't like Onoff's tone.

"Better clean that," Onoff decided, "And see if we can plug the leak."

He had a small medkit, though he would have preferred Doc's expertise. But when he reached for Phisher's helmet, Phisher caught his arm in a vise-like grip.

"No!" Phisher snapped, jerking his head away, which proved to be a mistake as it made him dizzy enough that he fell over on his side from the sitting position he'd been in, "Leave it... leave it be."

Onoff cocked his head to one side. Phisher had let go of his arm now, and put a hand against his helmet. A futile gesture. The behavior was odd. Onoff wracked his brain for a cause, and finally found one that he liked. Something about head injuries causing aberrant behavior. Or something like that.

Onoff liked it not so much because that would be a good thing, but more because it kept it from being a mysterious thing. He didn't like mysteries, didn't like it when things didn't make sense. And Phisher's behavior certainly didn't make sense. It was defensive. As though he had something to hide. Or.. or as though he was afraid of something. Of his own brother, the same one that had just risked his own neck to drag Phisher across the river, nearly drowning in the process.

"I'm... I'll be fine," Phisher's attempt at reassurance was feeble, and didn't really do any good.

Onoff ignored him and removed his own helmet, which released a tiny flood of water that had become trapped in it one of the times he'd been dunked under. He shook his head, a futile gesture in the pouring rain, and blinked in the dim light produced by his rifle.

He pointed it away, trying to get a reading on what sort of terrain was around them. It was no good. Visibility was near zero, even with the light. Even so, he made the same decision Caden had. Move away from the rising water, go inland and search for some manner of shelter.

"Can you walk, or do I have to carry you?" He asked Phisher.

It was funny, he thought, how one day you could feel like you were slow roasting beneath the sun, and the next shivering from the cold of the river. There was also shock to consider.

Shock was something clones didn't respond to very well. To them, it seemed like a physical result brought on by a mental condition. They readily understood physical injury and impairment, but any response brought on from the mind was a sign of weakness, which was something they had little tolerance for. When a clone went into shock, his brothers would typically mill around, not sure what to do or how to react. Or, if they had developed no affection for him, they might even attack.

Not that they would try to kill their brethren, but they would nudge him, push him, and maybe cuff him on the head, along with insults, to try and elicit a normal defensive response. Sometimes they even left such clones behind, unable to understand or alter the condition.

People are naturally inclined to do such things. They are uncomfortable around strange behavior, and may attempt to relieve their discomfort by lashing out. But, yet again, training played its own part as well. The clones knew no softness, no gentleness, and no mercy. Not by raising. Some of them learned it, but it was not innate and seldom taught.

Onoff had the experience to know that shock was a very real possibility for both himself and for Phisher. And that knowledge was concerning. It told him that they were vulnerable, and weak.

Onoff looked around again. He could see nothing, but that meant little. He couldn't hear anything that sounded dangerous, but the storm rendered him deaf to the faint noises a stalking hunter might have made. And it did not even occur to him to try and use his sense of smell, which he had been told wasn't really worth anything. He didn't know that it wasn't strictly true. But one had to learn to use the sense of smell, and Onoff had never been given occasion to do so.

Of all the clones in _Fortune Actual_ , Onoff was the most likely to take things in his stride.

Having determined that he understood the situation as best he was able, Onoff shook himself and set about taking a course of action. Normally, Phisher was the leader of the pair, deciding when and where they would hunt, and what it was they were hunting. He picked out the individual prey from the herd, and then Onoff flung himself into attempting to "make it happen".

More than once, Phisher's attack had stampeded a herd right towards Onoff's position. Onoff didn't try to get out of the way, but often stood to make his shot. When he broke from cover, the frightened animals would see him and bolt the other way. Standing his ground was something Onoff did very well. But he also had another tactic. Sometimes the prey would escape from the net. With only two clones, it was very difficult to surround animals, especially with the factor of wind direction playing a part.

Several times, Onoff had actually run diagonally to the fleeing herd, getting around in front of them, forcing them to turn to avoid him or to run into firing range. Onoff's quickness and focus had saved the hunt many times over. But most essential was his lack of fear. He would not back away from a stampede, and would even run towards them or sometimes among them.

His failing, at least in Phisher's opinion, was his single-mindedness. If Phisher told him to target one animal, he would pursue it to the exclusion of all others, even if they ran right up to him.

This was a trait brought on not from training, but from his predatory ancestry. Not so long ago, the species he was cloned from had been fierce hunters. Before they had effective weapons, they had to run down their prey. They couldn't stop or turn on a dime, and so couldn't take advantage of prey other than the one they were targeting. If they got distracted by an animal leaping alongside them, they could trip and break a bone, or else lose the target they were going after.

By nature's standards, Onoff was well equipped for the predatory lifestyle. He was an opportunist, and considered his options before taking action. But once set on a course, there was nothing that could distract or dissuade him from it. It made him a bad clone. On the field of battle, orders could change in an instant. But Onoff would pursue a set mission until it was complete, ignoring any and all other input. If you sent him to attack, there would be no calling him back.

It was not disobedience in the truest sense, he didn't make a core decision not to follow orders. In fact, Onoff was always eager to hear commands and to carry them out with almost doggish enthusiasm. He just didn't switch gears very well. His name might have come from his being "one of five", which had been abbreviated and then later mispronounced, but it suited him well for another reason. Phisher had made the joke that he had two settings: On and Off.

Now, he had lit on an idea, and that was to get away from the water.

And it was a good thing. Even though the rain had just started here specifically, it had been pouring in buckets from the sky for days. The ground was bloated with rain, and the river was swelling up and out now because the water had nowhere else to go. Had the clones remained where they were for the night, they would have been caught up in, and swept away by, a flash flood.

Phisher pushed off attempts to help him get up, insisting that he could walk on his own. But, five minutes later, his pride lost to his good sense, and he leaned against Onoff for support and guidance through the dark. Onoff didn't mind. He knew how embarrassing it was to be weak, you could feel ashamed even if it was not your fault, as this was not Phisher's.

Onoff knew Phisher better than to think he was weak.

The patience it took to ambush prey took a lot more than most people would imagine. Having to sit absolutely still, absolutely silent, sometimes for hours, with only the vaguest hope that your prey would come to the place you predicted so that you could have a shot at hunting them was trying.

And there was something, some instinct or inner sense that was crucial to the timing of the hunt. Some way of knowing without being able to see that the time was right to strike. Onoff didn't have that sense, and so waited for Phisher's cue. Phisher seemed to sense when prey was paying the least attention.

That sense made the difference between success and failure.

And, out here, that was the difference between life and death.


	15. Reunion

" _Eep?_ " the questioning voice drew Caden from the half-sleep he'd been enjoying and into the morning, which was dark and gray with rain, "Eep _eep_. Eep?"

He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the unfamiliar noise. With a curse, Caden leaped sideways to the right, away from the pair of bright black eyes.

It took a few seconds for his heart to get itself under control, and for his brain to wake up enough to even realize what he was trying to get away from. Those eyes. He'd seen those eyes before. During the attack. Large, oval eyes slanted forward to give their owner binocular vision. He'd seen those demonic eyes when he'd been fighting back, lit suddenly by a flash of lightning.

But these eyes were smaller, and set in a tiny little face. The thing wasn't black, but a sort of dusty brown. It looked dark because its downy, hairlike feathers were soaked through by the rain which still fell from the sky and made its way under the rocky outcrop Caden was sheltering beneath.

Caden hadn't clearly seen the adult animal, it had been too dark, the attack too fast and violent. So he couldn't say for sure what all made this thing different from the other. But he did know it was much, much smaller, and did not possess the protective spikes of the adult.

Its front claws were short, soft and pink, not strong, sharp and black like an adult's. Its beak was also pink, except at the very tip; the beak would slowly turn black until, as a sexually mature adult, it was solid colored. The beak didn't have the faux teeth, but instead the under jaw swept up to a point that was housed in a notch of the upper beak. The upper beak curved downward to a sharp point. The back claws were not even yet developed enough to dig, as they would be in a few weeks. The wings were too large and awkward for the baby muscles to fold them, and lay about the baby's feet, covered in mud.

Caden was struck by the desire to shoot the little monster. But he couldn't. It would be a waste of ammo, and the shot might attract other predators. So he merely regarded the baby animal with disdain, and hoped the wretched beast would go away. Caden's feelings were not unreasonable. He had been attacked by an adult one of these, and was not stupid enough to think that this cute little ball of feathers wouldn't grow up to be just like the parent animal. But that was far in the creature's future, and Caden didn't think he'd still be here when it grew up. Nor was it likely any of his brothers would be. Thus, the future threat was nonexistent, just like the present one.

"Eep!" The creature darted forward suddenly, snapping its head out away from its body with the aid of its long neck, and nipped something from where it was secured to Caden's armor.

"Hey!" Caden lashed out with one hand, trying to snag the creature by the leg, but it darted away.

Grumbling, he took stock, and realized the animal had swiped his rations. He looked around for the brazen little thief, and found it was beyond arm's reach, just under the very edge of the rocks. Before Caden could do anything, it threw its head back and gulped down the rations, container and all.

"I ought to wring your scrawny neck," Caden fumed, but couldn't be bothered to chase the agile little creature, especially since it had already eaten the food and so there would be no reward for catching it or driving it away, "Try it again and I will," he warned.

"Urp," The chick replied in its high-pitched, yet strangely throaty voice.

It then hopped towards Caden, making its little eep noises. Caden watched it suspiciously. When it unfurled its wings and made the grand leap onto his shoulder, he snarled and shoved it off as though it had bitten him. It rolled away in the mud, chirping indignantly.

It was about thirty or forty inches from nose to tail tip, and weighed less than two pounds. But Caden was not about to tolerate its advances. Not only didn't he trust it, it had eaten his food, stolen from him and then attempted to make nice. He hated it, and the only thing that kept him from killing it outright was that it looked like too much trouble to pin down.

The chick had no idea of the mortal danger it was in. It had hatched just this morning, and Caden was the first living thing it had laid its eyes on, about half an hour later. Its brain had immediately begun whirring, kicking into survival gear. This, it reasoned, must be its mother. Only its mother would be where it hatched. Only its mother could get this close, because its mother would kill anything else that came anywhere near the nest. And this was most definitely its mother because the chick had been fed. The fact that it had snatched the food away meant nothing to it. Nor did the fact that, instead of being a strip of fresh, soft meat, it had been in some kind of hard casing.

The chick's phenomenal digestive system would get to work corroding or crushing the container for the food, and that would be regurgitated hours later. Its system had to be able to to that, because its mother might catch small prey in times of famine, which would be fed almost entirely intact. Feathers, bones, hair and the like couldn't be digested, and so the chick's biology was such that these things could be dealt with. If it didn't have the ability to deal with such unpleasant prey, it would starve before reaching a week old. The drought could easily have continued another two weeks or more.

The chick didn't understand Caden's rebuff. Mothers were usually tolerant of their offspring for the first few weeks, only later beginning to educate them in good manners, such as not biting tails or insisting on playtime when the adult was trying to rest, or calling out if the mother left to hunt. The chick had no programmed response to being pushed away at this early age.

And so, it ignored his message, and leaped for his shoulder again. It wanted to snuggle with its mother, to be warm and dry, and to be very safe so that it could sleep. Its only motivations in life this early propelled it to demand to be fed, and to sleep. It didn't even have a play drive yet.

Caden pushed it off again, this time pinning it to the ground. The chick realized it was under attack, though it didn't understand why, and issued out a plaintive alarm call. Not only could predators sneak in and try to eat chicks, but sometimes a rowdy chick could startle its mother. The squeak was designed to provoke a protective maternal response. It was a universal helpless baby cry. Even Caden, who had no real parents and who was not meant to ever reproduce, was not immune to it.

Shaking his head at the sudden conflicting impulses inside, he let the chick got unscathed. For just a moment, he'd wanted to crush it flat. But he was not cruel, and didn't have it in him to destroy the helpless and harmless. He didn't understand what had changed his mind, but he accepted it.

The chick decided to wait. Somewhere in the back of its brain, it understood the response. When a mother animal has no food to offer, but the chicks badger her relentlessly, she may lose her temper. For the sake of survival, the chicks can recognize when its time to back off.

The chick squatted down to watch Caden from a few feet away, shivering as water ran across its skin. The feathers it had were not water resistant, and it was getting cold. It gurgled, but made no further attempt to approach Caden. Deciding the chick was finished being a nuisance, Caden settled down.

The rain still poured down. Caden knew he needed to find the others, but he also knew that the rain was falling too heavily for him to be able to find his way. He had to wait for it to let up just a little.

With nothing else to do, Caden went back to sleep. In an hour, he was roused by something making little eep sounds again. The chick perched on his right shoulder, its little foreclaws hanging on for dear life, but its eyes were closed and the eeping was involuntary sleep noise.

Caden sighed, and resigned himself to the chick's presence. It was less that he accepted it, and more that it was simply too much bother to try and destroy or drive away.

* * *

In the afternoon, Caden was awakened by a sound. This time, it was a sound he knew.

The rain had slackened off somewhat, and visibility beyond the rocky outcrop shelter, while not great, was a thing that existed. The rain still made enough noise that it could easily have drowned out the sound of footfalls; the only reason Caden noticed them was because he had been subconsciously listening for them since his arrival on this side of the river.

It was the sound of clones. Two of them. As they got closer, Caden even recognized the sound of their stride. It was funny how you could tell one clone from another, even though they all had been trained to march in perfect synchronized fashion. Still, to those who knew each other well, each had his own particular step, as clear and unique a thing as existed in the world.

Recognizing the approaching clones made Caden uneasy, rather than bringing the relief one might have expected. He knew them, and they him. But, from almost the first, it had been clear they had little use for him. It was Doc and Garm. Garm especially seemed to dislike Caden, ever since the day Garm had defended him from the lizard, Garm had been distant, snappish and irritable. Caden had responded in kind. The simple fact was this: Garm and Caden didn't like each other.

He didn't feel like they were a danger to him, nothing like that. But he harbored a small fear that, if he attempted to join them, they'd push him away or ignore him. Caden wanted to be part of a group, it was a deep desire that sprang from the instinctive and trained awareness that a group is safer and stronger than an individual. He wanted to be accepted, especially where this was the first sign of his kind he'd had. The others might all be dead, he might be one of only three survivors.

Caden got up. Sort of. The rocky outcrop had a roof too low to stand, and he was obliged to crouch and crawl his way out from under it. Then he straightened and waited. He may have recognized his brothers on approach, but they had no idea he was there. He didn't want to startle them. At least, not enough that they might shoot him for it. They, he knew, were probably still fully armed.

It was obvious that Garm cued on the motion before identifying it. He stopped, but Caden wasn't moving any more. He shifted slightly to one side, and it was then that he realized what he was looking at. Faster than Caden could react, Garm covered the distance between them.

He threw his good arm around Caden's neck, and Caden at first thought he was being attacked.

"Cade! You made it!" Garm certainly didn't sound unhappy to see him.

In fact, Caden realized with some shock that Garm was... was being _friendly_.

He also realized that neither Garm nor Doc had their blaster rifles. Garm had been more effective than Damyu at concealing his weakness, such that Tavis, Volk and Mother hadn't even factored his broken arm into their thinking. But Doc had not forgotten, and it was a good thing too, otherwise Garm would most likely have drowned. Even as it was, they had been carried further downriver than even Caden.

"What. Is _that_?" Doc wanted to know, jogging up to join them and seeing the chick on Caden's shoulder.

It had ducked Garm's arm, and now perched on the edge of Caden's shoulder, hissing audibly. It nipped at Garm's glove, but he neither felt it nor particularly cared.

"It's cute," Garm observed mildly, "Nasty temper though."

And thus, they accepted both Caden and his unwanted passenger into their group, and continued their journey upriver, hoping to find the others waiting where the river and mountains met. Hoping that they weren't the only survivors, and that they hadn't been left behind.


	16. Blue

Tavis, Volk and Damyu had only been dragged a few hundred yards downriver before making it across. Volk proved to be a powerful swimmer, with a good sense for following currents rather than fighting them. Tavis had followed him, and they'd kept Damyu between them. Damyu had fought the river bravely, but would have sunk before getting across had Volk not caught him and dragged him the last few feet. They'd made it across, minus one blaster rifle.

Tavis had his, and Damyu had clung stubbornly to his own. Volk had, amazingly enough, sacrificed his rifle in favor of saving the rookie's life. It was less startling when one looked at the facts. Volk had always been motivated by instinct. Training said the rifle was more valuable than a trooper. Instinct told him otherwise. A rifle could be replaced, a life could not. And, in their current situation, there was more safety in numbers than guns that might or might not actually deign to fire.

Still, it had been a surprise to Tavis, and he found himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew about Volk. Actually, Volk was a bit of a puzzle all the way around. Harsh, cold and seemingly emotionally detached from everyone around him, yet at the same time clearly devoted to his fireteam's welfare and, by proxy, the rest of the squad's as well. It was very confusing.

More baffling still was Volk's first suggestion.

"We should move on when it's light enough to see. No point in staying here," he said.

It was a complete 180. From risking his life for Damyu to casually suggesting that the rest of the squad should be presumed dead and left behind. It was too sharp a turn for Tavis to cope with for a moment. He decided not to try and fathom the logic behind this behavior shift, and merely accept it as he had accepted all of Volk's other eccentricities.

Of the clones, Tavis alone had a clear notion of why they were here on Onithera. The others had their opinions and thoughts on the matter, if they bothered to contemplate it at all. But Tavis knew. They were here because they were the less than perfect, the inadequate. The unwanted. And, in most cases, there was a good reason for it. It was Tavis' assumption that Volk's erratic behaviors were the reason why he was here. Volk was thoroughly unpredictable, and therefore difficult to trust.

"No," Tavis replied after a beat, "We'll wait here. Some of the others could have made it and, if they've got any sense, they'll be heading this way."

There had been no time to put a plan in place. When they'd hit the river, it had been a disjointed retreat, with no plan for regrouping. But there didn't need to be one. They all knew where they were going. Each and every one of them knew the distance and direction of their objective. It was logical to follow that flight plan. And, with the river serving as a clear path marker, it was doubtful they would get lost.

"How long?" Volk asked sourly, "How long do we wait?"

Tavis hadn't thought about that yet, but Volk did have a point. Could they wait until every one of the clones was present and accounted for? Certainly not. That might never happen. They knew one of their number was dead. It was possible others might also be. They could be waiting for a clone who would never come. It was not feasible to just wait indefinitely.

They still had an objective, though Tavis had much doubt about it. It had been Mother's decision in a way, there was no higher authority sending them this way. But Mother wasn't in charge anymore. Tavis was. And yet, he still followed the directive. Frankly, he had no better idea of what to do.

They couldn't just run around in the bushes playing tag with the local wildlife forever.

Tavis decided not to answer the question while at the same time reestablishing his authority over the little group. He knew well enough that, though Volk had accepted his leadership, any display of weakness or uncertainty would bring out that vicious side of him. And Tavis had little confidence in his ability to best Volk a second time. It had been luck, pure and simple, that led to his victory last time.

"We'll stay until I say otherwise," He said, in what he hoped was a decisive tone.

Volk didn't even grumble. In silence, he accepted this response. He was a clone. Demanding explanations for why things were was not in his nature.

Damyu watched the exchange, but played no part in it. He was smart enough to know he had no vote. GAR troopers did not live in a world of democracy but of dictatorship. Strangely, they were subject to the exact kind of treatment that the people of the Republic sought to avoid. If they had been inclined to think about such things, they would have found the whole thing rife with hypocrisy.

But clones, or at least these clones, were not plagued by such thoughts.

His position as leader thus secured, Tavis had turned to the next problem. That of finding shelter away from the rapidly rising river, but close enough that it was still in view, and so was anyone passing that way. The sight of the rising water set him on edge.

Where Volk had proven to be an efficient swimmer, Tavis had learned that he himself was the exact opposite. He'd held his own in the river once, but had no desire to do it again. In fact, he was just a little bit afraid of it, something that confused him even more than Volk's personality.

Like most clones, Tavis had a very derisive attitude towards fear. A clone should not be afraid of anything. And Tavis knew he was not afraid to die. He accepted that as an inevitable consequence of living. He didn't especially wish to die, but his birth had happened without his consent, and so it seemed as though death would happen in much the same fashion.

However, "For the Glory of the Republic" was sounding less and less convincing. After all, that faceless higher power had sent him here. It was why he was here, fighting just to survive. It's difficult to have any awe for an unknown entity which asks you to fight and die for its own benefit, no matter how powerful it is. Tavis didn't really know it, but he was beginning to realize that any religion without love, without hope or joy, is no religion at all, but a falsehood. And the devotion of clones to the Republic was nothing short of such a religion, even if they didn't know it.

Volk took the first watch, which proved to be uneventful. The buckets of rainwater pouring from the sky washed away scents and limited visibility and hearing. Predators couldn't hunt, and prey couldn't graze. Everything hunkered down and waited for the rain to stop, or at least let up a little.

The rain had eased off a bit when Tavis took over the watch in the afternoon. And, looking out towards the river, he felt his loathing for it growing anew. He didn't swear to himself that he would never swim again; he wasn't stupid enough to think he could keep such a promise. But he did come to the decision that he would avoid bodies of water when and where possible.

Strangely, though he had not been hurt by the river when the Lake Monster attacked, or when he fought Volk, or even when he swam across it, an irrational feeling of revulsion engulfed him. He didn't admit to himself that it was fear. If he did, then he would have to face the fact that he was afraid of something. And not just anything. Something it was not rational for him to fear. The water had not hurt him, nor was it likely to hurt him more than any one of a hundred other things. It was an irrational, groundless terror. It was a phobia.

And a true phobia is not cured by experience, or logical reasoning. You can know a thing is perfectly harmless, yet still be paralyzed at the sight of it. The best most people can hope for is to be able to ignore their fear, to be able to stand and face it. But always they will feel that terror in the back of their minds. The fear of the fear in itself is almost the worst thing. That awareness that there is no rationale for what you are feeling, and that (unlike most other feelings) you cannot control it by means of habit and reason.

But Tavis was less concerned with the fear itself, as he was with the admission of it. Not only would it be a considerable blow to his normally unassailable pride, but it would also be a sign of weakness. And Volk, Tavis believed, would be ready to exploit it at any opportunity.

Tavis was distracted from his thoughts by sound. Something crashing about in the underbrush near the river, several yards downhill. Tavis sat up straighter, searching the leaves and branches for a color or shape that was not a part of the bushes. He had never been given cause to question why he was keener of eye than many of his brothers, the explanation was that he had come from a batch of clones which had been specially altered for that feature. He'd never questioned the ridiculousness of that.

If it were really possible to intentionally give a clone better eyesight, that would be done with all of them. Tavis' exceptional vision was a positive variant in the usually negative cloning process. Most often, when a clone did not match specifications, it was through some physical or temperamental fault. But, every now and then, a clone would have something the others didn't, something that made him superior in some way.

It was an annoying curiosity, this variation in cloning. Scientifically speaking, they should all have come out identical from appearance to personality. But... that wasn't what happened. And it couldn't be explained, except to say that it "just happened that way sometimes", which wasn't terribly satisfying.

A flash of white caught Tavis' eye, and he shifted his position slightly to make sure he saw what he thought. It was the unmistakable color and texture of clone armor. After a moment, the clone appeared briefly in view. He stopped and waited, and a second clone joined him.

Even from this distance, Tavis could recognize Onoff and Phisher. And he could see that Phisher was injured, though from this angle he was unable to see the slash in Phisher's helmet.

Tavis stood up and whistled sharply. Onoff and Phisher turned, looking towards the sound. They couldn't identify Tavis specifically from this distance through the rain, but they recognized clone armor, and that was enough to head them in the right direction. And Tavis saw something too. The deep gash running down the side of Phisher's helmet. He knew what that might mean.

"Losing pieces" and living to fight another day was not uncommon, and every clone accepted such handicaps almost as readily as death itself. But all of them had the one thing they feared most to lose. For snipers, it was usually an eye. Tavis was no exception, and he winced involuntarily.

As Onoff and Phisher approached, it was clear Phisher either couldn't see at all, or not very well. But he resisted any attempt at help, and Onoff seemed resigned to merely moving a short distance and then waiting for Phisher to catch up, blindly following the sound of his steps.

When they finally reached him, Tavis directed them towards the kopje they had camped in. Phisher went that way, probably eager to rest for awhile. But Onoff paused, a nervousness to him that Tavis was unaccustomed to. Silently, he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"What?" Tavis demanded when it was apparent Onoff wasn't going to get the nerve to speak for himself.

"Well sir... it may be nothing... and maybe I shouldn't even bring it up..." he trailed off.

"Well, spit it out or swallow it," Tavis prodded, "I don't much care which you choose."

"Sir... it's Phisher... I... well I know it probably doesn't matter... but... well, I only got a glimpse... and maybe I'm wrong... but... but he's got blue eyes, sir. It may just been inexperience talking... I've never seen one of us with blue eyes."

 _And you never will,_ Tavis thought. But this he kept to himself.

* * *

"You _can't_ explain it to him," Phisher said.

Tavis thought it to be an absurd choice of words. The thing that made it so difficult was precisely that. He most certainly _could_ , and life would be that much easier for him if he did. It also seemed an insulting remark. If he had intended to explain anything to Onoff, he would have done so already.

He and Phisher were out of earshot of the others, ostensibly so Tavis could examine and treat the wound Phisher had refused to even let Onoff get a good look at. He'd reacted quickly, but it was not enough. Onoff didn't have Tavis' eyes, but his own had worked well enough.

It had probably been less the color and more the shade he'd seen. Clones had notably dark brown eyes. They never gave much thought to it, but the sight of one with blue eyes had to have been disconcerting. Hair could be dyed, tattoos were always possible, scars could change much, but eye color was constant, unless a clone had lost an eye in battle. It was something which was a constant in their universe.

"I don't see what difference it could possibly make now," Tavis said, choosing not to defend himself, or to put Phisher in his place.

Truth was, Tavis wasn't sure of Phisher's place. And, when Phisher had come to join _Fortune Actual_ just before they shipped out to Onithera, Tavis had been agreeable enough. Not that he'd really had much choice in the matter. But it had also been a different time. The situation had been different. And, Tavis reluctantly admitted to himself, _he_ had been different.

"Look, I like you guys. I really do. Off, especially. But it's vital that nobody ever know I was here. Or maybe it's not anymore. But I can't take that chance. And you shouldn't either."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tavis demanded, bristling slightly.

"Look, I know you're developing this new aggressive attitude towards the world, and that's great, but that's not what I meant and you know it. I don't threaten people I fight alongside."

Tavis made a small noise of derision. He'd certainly felt threatened enough when presented with the truth of who Phisher was and why he was there.

"I'm saying even you aren't supposed to know about me," Phisher persisted, "And there are those who won't like it much if they find out you know more than you're supposed to. And you put anyone you tell in exactly the same kind of danger. Look, I don't make the rules, I just follow them."

"I will not lie to my men," Tavis said in a low, steady voice, "I told you that. If they ask, I will answer. You can thank a GAR trooper's lack of curiosity that Onoff didn't ask me a question. Hell, he likes you so well, he was tempted not to say a word to me about it. Your problem, Phisher, is that you don't trust anybody. In this game, you learn that you have to trust somebody, sometime."

"I trusted you," Phisher pointed out.

"You didn't have a choice," Tavis reminded him.

Without another word, he stood and rejoined the ranks of _Fortune Actual_ , or what remained of it anyway, leaving Phisher behind to think it over. The problem with secrets is that they're heavy. Even if they're kept with good reason, they weigh on a person's conscience, even if he doesn't think to realize it. Phisher knew that the time would come when Tavis wearied of carrying the unwonted load.

And too, he knew that Tavis' loyalty was more to _Fortune_ than to the Republic, and that devotion to the former was growing by the day, whereas love for the latter deminished with each passing second.

For what it was worth, Phisher didn't blame him.


	17. Flood

A low rumble was the only warning, arriving seconds before the rush of water that generated it. The heavy rainfall, and the poorly absorbent soil of the world combined to make one of nature's most deadly forces. A flash flood. It took only two feet of water to sweep away the heaviest, most powerful walker vehicle. A clone stood less than no chance to stand against half that much. The power and swiftness of the water was deadly, the secondary danger being the debris it bore along with it.

The tide of water rushed forth, and there was a mad scramble among the clones, climbing higher on the rocks, hoping that would be higher than the water. They had never seen anything like it. Water was meant to flow according to the laws of gravity... or something like that. In any case, it simply didn't hop its banks and come chasing after you like some malevolent spirit. Or it wasn't supposed to anyway.

Volk, the first to the top of the rocks, watched alertly as the water roared past, sweeping a variety of curious objects, mostly plants and animals, along with it. In less than a minute, Volk had seen more kinds of animals and plants go by than he had the whole time he'd been on the planet, many kinds he hadn't had any idea existed at all.

The others were soon gathered beside him, watching in horrified fascination. Except for Tavis. He had climbed to the relative safety of the top of the kopje just like the others, but he did not watch the things swirling about in the dark water. He gazed without focus at the water itself.

He wasn't thinking, not about it or anything else. Just staring in abject terror, uncomprehending fear. The others were too absorbed in their own observations to notice. They felt reasonably safe, since the water didn't appear to be rising, just moving really fast.

Rain still pattered down from the cloud blackened sky, but it held little interest for them now. The clones weren't curious for long, and the novelty of this fast moving, powerful water soon wore off. Having determined that it was not presently a danger to them, they filed it away under things to watch out for in the future and lost interest. Except Tavis, who continued to stare at the water.

Only once they had deemed themselves secure and subsequently lost interest in the flood did it occur to any one of them that some of their number were still missing. Had they the same fortune as the clones here? Or had the water caught them out in the open, swept them away? If it did, was there a chance of survival? Or would they just drown? And would the water go away, or would it keep flowing on like this? What would happen if the water kept running? Would they have to try and cross it?

Questions came one after the other, but none of them asked anything. They would have asked Tavis, as he was their leader. But they now noticed his tense motionlessness. They weren't sure what it meant, but it unnerved them, and not one dared approach with a question.

"What's he doing?" Damyu asked Volk quietly.

Volk did not reply, instead watching intently Tavis' lack of movement.

The others might not know fear when they saw it plainly, but Volk did. For a moment, a vicious cunning came into his eyes. His shrewd mind had conjured up all at once a plan of action. Tavis was quite near the edge of the rocks, and very much out of focus in mind. Given that, and the rain, and how slick the rocks were, it would be easy. So _very_ easy.

Why Volk did not choose to act on this notion is anybody's guess. But it is worth noting that he didn't, even though it was the perfect opportunity and he had fully realized it. Perhaps he didn't have interest in killing one of his own. Or maybe he felt their numbers were already low enough, that they needed every man they still had. Or perhaps he simply wasn't in the mood for killing today.

"Let him be," Volk said, after gazing at his leader for what seemed to be a very long time, in a way that had made the others feel distinctly uncomfortable for reasons they didn't bother to think about.

Another odd thought had occurred to him. Tavis had seemed edgy about the water all day. It made Volk wonder if, somehow, Tavis had known. It was impossible... and yet... what if it were true? What would that mean to him? To the rest of the squad?

Volk put that thought on a shelf with the other one, and settled down to wait out the storm, or for Tavis to regain his senses, whichever happened first.

* * *

Caden, Garm and Doc would have had far more warning than did the clones upriver, if they hadn't ignored it. Or, to put it more fairly, if they hadn't simply misunderstood it.

The chick had insinuated itself among them, and seemed well pleased with itself. Already, it had become quite skilled at clinging onto Caden's armor, which was a much easier hold than it would have had with its mother, whose quill-covered body would have been protection but also a hindrance. The fingers (or front toes) of the chick were adept at holding to almost anything, the tail provided perfect balance, and the natural fast reflexes of the born predator made up for any lapse of attention on the part of the chick. Caden could move however he liked, and the little animal would hold on.

And he most certainly did move how he liked. While Garm seemed to have been charmed by the little beast, Caden was not. He didn't like it, and he really didn't like that it was attached to him. It hissed and swiped tiny soft claws at Garm and Doc both.

The little scratching sounds of its claws were irritating, its little gurgles and coos were not conducive to stealth of any kind, and then there were the occasional wing flaps. When the thing flapped its wings, it had a tendency to get them stuck on Caden's helmet, rendering him blind quite suddenly, sometimes while he was trying to negotiate a rough patch of ground; it was a hindrance he did not appreciate.

Towards the evening, the chick's behavior altered abruptly. The chirps turned to urgent squawking and, having discovered that the only way to secure Caden's undivided attention was to throw a wing over his face, it insistently flapped its ungainly wings. It had sensed the impending flood and, though its baby brain told it that it was perfectly safe with its "mother", it was still terrified and wanted to get away.

"Damn fool beast," Caden said, then spared a few choice epithets for the creature, "Don't you get it? If you make me trip and fall, _you'll_ get flattened. Do you think this is funny?"

He pried the delicate wing off his face for what seemed the thousandth time. Despite his harsh words, neither Garm nor Doc had failed to notice how gently he handled the fragile creature. Maybe he really did hate it, but something inside him prevented him from doing it harm. They suspected he actually sort of liked his new friend.

The chick squawked irritably and nipped at the hand that pushed its wing into the folded position.

"Hey, you ate my food, remember? I'm not about to let you have a piece of me too," Caden snapped.

The chick chirped, delighted at having gotten his attention. And it promptly hit him in the face with its wing again, and feigned the inability to pull its wing back. It squalled as though stuck, threw its head back and opened its beak wide, bleating like the baby it was.

"Maybe he's hungry again," Doc suggested, with a bemused grin his helmet fortunately concealed.

"He?" Garm twitched to attention, "How can you tell it's a 'he'?"

"He's obnoxious, for one thing. And a slow learner for another," Doc replied, "Besides, if you knew anything about anatomy at all, you'd know it was a he as well as I do."

Garm stared blankly at the chick, who had just hit Caden with its wing again. Before he could think of anything (clever or otherwise) to say, a warning rumble caused his focus to shift abruptly.

He recognized the danger without seeing it through the underbrush. He didn't know what it was, only that it was something they should not attempt to stand and face.

"Run," Garm said, and then rammed his shoulder into Doc when nobody paid him any attention.

Though not slow witted by any means, the idea of running was not one clones drew to readily. And Garm was in no position of authority. Doc, shoved a few steps by Garm, held his ground thereafter. Caden stared towards the sound, listening and looking intently. The chick had flattened and grown quiet at the back of his neck, he could hear it hissing softly, waiting for him to teach it how to react to the oncoming threat. He realized now that the chick had known about it all along.

And then the first surge of water hit. It came barely to the clones' knees, and yet still it had the power to knock them flat. The chick shrieked bloody murder even though it was not hurt. Caden had managed to fall on his right side, even as the chick scrambled to the left.

Garm didn't go all the way down, having braced himself against the trunk of a tree. Doc was ducked completely under, but Garm hauled him upright even as a second wave of water rushed towards them. Garm clung to the tree, and Doc held onto him. But Caden was rolled by this new rush of water, and the flood got well underway, carrying him out of view in an instant.

"Up the tree!" Garm shouted above the roar of water.

The tree was a big one, with a solid trunk. Even so, Doc had his doubts about whether it could hold. Moreover, he had doubts about his ability to climb it. But he was in no position to argue with Garm. Though running at Garm's behest earlier would not have saved them, it might have afforded them more time, or perhaps a better position. Arguing with Garm was clearly not a good use of one's time.

Scrambling, Doc went up the tree as best he could. He was not especially proficient at it, but managed to make it up onto a thick branch. At which point he looked down and realized Garm had not followed him. Indeed, he could not, his broken arm prevented him from undertaking such a venture.

Doc hadn't even thought of that. The next rushing wave ran up the tree, and Garm vanished with it, leaving Doc alone with fear, guilt and shame all mingling together in a knot. Doc leaned into the tree and shivered, watching the world around him turned black as night enveloped everything.

* * *

Caden was bounced and rolled along in the current, spinning helplessly, for some length of time he had no ability to measure. Forever, it seemed like. And then he chanced to hit against a boulder. He clawed for it, blind and nearly drowned by the water, and managed to find purchase. That accomplished, he climbed up it, hoping that it was taller than the water was deep. It was, and his head broke surface. He took in great gasps of air, and then pulled himself from the water.

The chick, miraculously, had hung on. Its little front paws were meant to hold to its mother no matter what, and were far stronger than any other part of its body. They had served it well, as had its innate ability to hold its breath. However, it had not survived without cost.

One of the leathery brownish wings hung limp from its side, never to flap again. Crippled thus, it had no hope of surviving. Its mother would have abandoned it, knowing that time would not cure this ill, that she could do nothing, no matter how intelligent or aggressive she was.

But Caden, as it happened, could do something. And did.

Settling himself on the boulder, Caden opened his tiny medkit and removed a splint. Realizing at once it was too large for the chick, he set about cutting it to size. This task so absorbed him that he didn't even notice the continuing flood or the rain, or even the darkness. When it got too dark, he just used a penlight from the medkit and kept working.

The chick lay still, miserable with pain and cold, its eyes glazed. It had been a very, very long birthday.


	18. Unpredictable

_SPLASH!_

That sound got Tavis' attention. After the flood receded, or went off wherever it had been headed, Tavis and the others had gone to sleep. Somewhat awkwardly, because they had elected not to leave the safety of the rocks. Rain had pelted them all night, and the sloped rocks were slippery with it.

Looking around, Tavis found the source of the splash... and the cause of it.

On the ground, several feet below, Damyu had landed on his back in a puddle. He wasn't hurt, except maybe the wind had gotten knocked out of him. But it wasn't an especially dangerous distance to fall, and his armor had shielded him from any damage he might have taken in bouncing off the rocks on the way down. He appeared to be stunned, but not particularly distressed.

Kneeling down, peering over the edge of the rocks, was Volk. He appeared to be quietly pleased with himself, in no way concealing that he was the culprit, but also showing no sign of malicious intent. In fact, he seemed rather amused by the whole thing.

And the thing was this: he'd finally lost patience with Damyu. Some time after falling asleep, Damyu had rolled over and proceeded to use Volk as a pillow. But it was the snoring that had set Volk off. He hadn't even really meant to push Damyu off the rocks. Just roll him over. Only Damyu had kept rolling, right off the edge. The splashing sound that had resulted, combined with a truly awkward and graceless fall, had served to improve Volk's mood tremendously.

Damyu sat up, not entirely sure what had happened, while Volk looked on.

Whether it was a spark of mischief or irritation that caused what happened next, nobody could quite say. But Tavis simply got up, and applied a boot to Volk's shoulder, tipping him off the rocks. Volk yelped in surprise, and managed no more elegant a fall than Damyu had. He landed right next to the rookie, who looked at him, then up at Tavis, bewildered.

Tavis looked down for a long moment, and then jumped down to join Volk and Damyu. His landing splattered mud on them, which provoked an amused chuckle from Tavis.

"Oh you think that's funny, huh?" Volk was no longer amused, but Damyu had now joined the game.

He threw mud at both his superiors, and then had to scramble to his feet as both went after him, chasing him around the kopje. Onoff and Phisher observed this idiocy with bemusement. The cooler weather, combined with the thrill of having survived, had clearly had a strange effect on those below.

Volk overtook Damyu, tackled him to the ground, and then lost hold of him, mud and water making it difficult to hold onto much of anything. Damyu got back to his feet, and was then promptly flattened by Tavis, who hit him with a shoulder. Tavis kept to his feet, rather than trying to pin Damyu down.

The game was short-lived. Caution and good sense quickly overrode the celebratory and impromptu play. Most specifically, Tavis heard something in the surviving bushes, and that distracted him.

As a result of the flood, they had all gathered together, and thus had little advance warning of anything or anyone approaching. Volk and Damyu stood beside Tavis, also listening. Above, Onoff and Phisher had become tense. From their position, they had seen a flicker of movement. A flash of white, which should have been the armor of a clone. But there was something... not right about it.

And the sound had not been anything like what a clone would make. While the clones had nothing in their memory which resembled their armor, they were still capable of entertaining the possibility.

Quietly, Tavis drew his pistol and waited. A moment later, he put it away.

"Caden, good to see you're in one piece. But what the hell is that on your shoulder?" Tavis asked in an absurdly calm voice.

"A hitch hiker, sir," Caden replied in an almost defensive tone.

Tavis made a decision then. And that decision was not to question why Caden had lugged this creature along with him. Instead, he took note of the fact that Caden appeared to have lost his rations. Without ceremony, he took his own and threw them to Caden. Caden caught the rations, but did not otherwise move. Clones were loyal to one another, yes. But sharing rations was something they did so rarely that it had never been talked of. Food was life, as valuable to a clone as his weapon, which he would never willingly share with anyone, ever, for any reason. Tavis turned away before Caden could absorb the unexpected generosity or respond to it either one.

Volk cocked his head curiously, but did not comment. Nor did he say anything when this act of sharing was repeated by Caden a minute or two later, when the clone shared his food with his little winged friend, who did not much appreciate the nature of sharing and attempted to take all for itself.

He walked away, much puzzled. Puzzled by Tavis, and by Caden. Pets were not a thing clones had. They weren't allowed to. Caden knew that. So did Tavis. Not only that, but Caden's "pet" was very obviously spawn of the hell beast that had tried to kill them. Had killed at least one of them.

But Tavis had ignored the creature almost completely. Caden actually fed the thing. It was too many unlikely, against the rules (both spoken and unspoken), bizarre things at once. Volk couldn't decide which one to try and figure out first, and so he decided not to think about any of it.

Damyu, ever more curious than his brothers, and having apparently learned little from his previous encounter with an animal, was quick to move in and give the creature a little poke in the side. It hissed vehemently and snapped at him. It missed, but Damyu decided not to push his luck.

"What's his name?" Damyu asked, still eying the creature with open curiosity.

"Name?" It had not occurred to Caden to give the chick a name.

In fact, he still didn't consciously intend to keep it. Only when he thought about the effort he'd spent splinting the broken wing, and that he'd offered the chick a portion of the limited rations that weren't even his to begin with did it finally dawn on him. He was feeling responsible for the chick.

"I suppose he'll need one of those," Caden said after a thoughtful moment, "What's a good name?"

Damyu blinked. Nobody had ever asked him his opinion before. The novel experience rendered his mind blank. When he could think of something to say, he said it, even though it sounded stupid.

"Well, this planet is called Onithera right?" Damyu didn't wait for an answer, "So why don't we call him Onitheran?"

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," Volk pitched in, having been watching the exchange without participating until now, "Whoever heard of naming a species after the planet it lives on? Besides, that's not a name anyway."

Damyu didn't dare point out that his own monicker wasn't really a name either.

"Maybe not, but it gives me an idea," Caden said, looking at the chick, which cooed happily at the piece of food it was playing with instead of eating, "Theran. I'll call him Theran. A hunter. That's what he'll be someday."

"Yeah, a hunter of us most likely," Volk grumbled.

"Maybe," Caden admitted, "But I don't think so."

Theran gulped down the morsel of food and blinked his great eyes, noticing that everyone was staring at him for the first time. Suddenly very shy, he ducked around behind Caden's head and issued out a menacing hiss, flattening against the back of Caden's neck.

"Some hunter," Volk shook his head, but didn't push it.

The clones settled down to resume their wait. Damyu watched in fascination while Theran scrabbled about in the mud, digging shallow furrows, his true intention being to dig tunnels but he hadn't the skill for it yet. Caden pretended to nap, but kept a quiet eye on his charge. Volk was on watch, while Tavis had climbed back up on top of the rocks, not only to get a better view of the surrounding area, but to think as well. The only discord was between Phisher and Onoff, who had hitherto been generally well disposed to one another. But Onoff responded to conversational gestures from Phisher with uncharacteristic shortness, and Phisher soon decided to go off and sit by himself. Onoff took a nap.

Phisher was obliged to think about what Tavis had said. He didn't like it. But he knew that was mostly because Tavis was right. Phisher had not anticipated the level of intelligence these clones had. He had not anticipated liking them. He had not anticipated... a whole helluva lot of things.

But least of all had he anticipated that Tavis would ever show a spark of aggression. Tavis was here specifically because he lacked the aggression deemed necessary to get the job done. He expressed little in the way of dislike for Separatists, and fought (as one captain had put it) "lazily".

Tavis was skilled, and did not express any reluctance to go into battle. Hell, he'd been promoted because he'd shown the potential to be a good leader. But he just didn't possess the fiery, almost fanatical hatred of Separatists and, in particular, droids. He didn't actually show much enthusiasm for anything. He went through life as though half-asleep. But he sure had woken up now.

Phisher had thought Tavis the most predictable clone in the world. But the fight with Volk, Tavis' sudden rise to leadership, and his apparent indifference to Caden's rule breaking... they spoke of a significant change which was either taking place or had already happened. Now all bets were off.

The obvious solution would be to arrange an 'accident' for Tavis. Or, had they still been at base and in radio contact with the outside world, a sudden transfer to some place where he couldn't do any harm. But neither was viable at this point for a multitude of reasons. The one Phisher liked least was the fact that he didn't want to hurt this squad, or Tavis either. This squad _needed_ Tavis.

But Phisher was deeply concerned about what he was becoming. And what, in turn, the squad would become. Phisher didn't even want to think about the reality that, once they found a way off this rock, he would no longer be a part of whatever that transformation was to be. Even if Tavis hadn't said it, it still would have been true. These were not his people, and this was not his place.

"Halt!" Volk's voice called out.

Phisher lifted his head and looked towards the guard post. A few moments later, Doc came traipsing into the haphazard camp. He looked exhausted, but it was more than that. About him there was the unmistakable aspect of defeat. Phisher tilted his head, and thought about asking Doc something. Information was something he craved, it was why he'd been asked to come here.

But he didn't. Something held him back. He wasn't sure what it was. Or rather, he was sure, but didn't want to admit it. The thinly veiled suspicion of Onoff, the not so veiled hostility of Tavis... Phisher could no longer even pretend he was part of the squad. Maybe he never should have tried.

Doc went straight to Tavis.

"I lost Garm," he said quietly, "It's my fault..."

"Dead?" Tavis asked.

"I didn't see... but I don't think he's coming," Doc replied very softly, "I should have tried to help him. I knew he couldn't... couldn't climb. But... but I just ran and hid."

Tavis said nothing. Instead he looked past Doc. The loss of Garm was a terrible blow. But more terrible was that now everyone was accounted for. Mother was dead. Fireteam _Fortune_ had no leader. And Tavis had lost the only confidant he felt he could trust.

Now he was on his own.

"If Garm ain't comin', we should shove off," Volk said, not giving Tavis time to think through the range of emotions that had unexpectedly come upon him.

"No," Tavis replied curtly, "We're not writing him off so easily. Garm's a survivor. Could be he'll show up by nightfall. Besides," he looked skyward, "I think it's going to rain again."

From the very start, Mother had been a liability. Everybody knew it, even Mother. When Tavis indirectly usurped his leadership role, in some ways he became even more of one. How could it ever be explained to anyone that a sergeant answered to a corporal? That a private (first class) had assaulted that corporal, and gone unpunished? It couldn't be. But neither could it be hidden. Not so long as Mother was alive. Somebody would notice. Now Mother was dead.

Tavis tried telling himself it was for the best. But it didn't feel like it was true. He needed Mother to act as a balance for Volk, the passive and the aggressive, sentimental and ruthless tactician. And fireteam _Fortune_ needed a leader. Tavis knew that he must choose the successor.

With Caden, Onoff and Phisher all ostensibly the same rank, it was a matter of squad leader's choice. Tavis was not terribly keen on his options. Caden had proven to be nervy under pressure, Phisher Tavis didn't trust, and Onoff... well... there was no halfway with him, and discussion had never been his strong suit. Tavis supposed it wouldn't matter soon.

Each fireteam was down a man. How long before there was only one fireteam left? Until there was nobody left? Tavis let the wave of panic hit, knowing it would sweep through, wreak havoc on his nerves, and then leave so that he could think clearly once more. It couldn't last.

"Do you really expect Garm to show up?" Volk asked.

Tavis almost snapped at Volk to leave him alone. But he didn't. Volk had every right to ask the question; every right, and every reason. Not only was he the only one left in an advisory position to Tavis, but Garm was part of his fireteam, in essence belonged to him. Was there a note of derision at waiting for someone who would never come in his voice? Or was that a scrap of hope? Tavis didn't know. He never knew with Volk, and right now he couldn't be bothered to care.

"No. I don't."

"Then why wait?"

Tavis looked at him, but did not answer for a long moment. Why wait?

Garm had risked his life to save Caden. That risk had cost him dearly, more than any of them realized that it would. Loyally, Garm had altered his behavior to follow Volk's lead, never a question. Without being asked, he had ever covered the rear of the squad, prepared to guard against all comers. Among clones, who seldom complained, he did so even less. He talked little, and did not easily make friends, but he was loyal, honest, and either courageous or without fear.

Why wait?

"If you don't know..." Tavis said finally, "...then I can't hope to explain it to you."

Volk looked like he would make some kind of retort, but instead just nodded. There were a great many things he did not understand, especially when it came to his leader. And so, he did what any good clone would: he acknowledged, and accepted without question that which he did not understand.

For that, Tavis was immeasurably grateful.

Volk's mind was already elsewhere, tangling with a problem he could understand. Doc and Caden had lost their blaster rifles. Phisher had kept hold of his own, but it was dead. Onoff had his, Volk had lost his, Damyu had his, and Tavis had his. Among them, only Tavis, Onoff and Damyu were still properly armed. Caden must have lost his rations, everyone else had theirs (except Tavis, who'd given his to Caden), but that was limited. They needed to hunt soon.

Volk looked to Phisher and Onoff, but they were actively pretending not to be ignoring one another. Volk spent neither time nor effort in wondering what their problem was. It was his presumption that whatever it was had to be trivial and stupid, and he had no patience for such idiocy.

"We're going to need to hunt again if we want to make it through the pass," Volk said.

Tavis looked to Phisher and Onoff, it was his first instinct as it had been Volk's. But then he shook his head, in a way that suggested he knew exactly what had those two at odds. Volk didn't ask. As mentioned, he didn't especially care about the feelings of other's.

But he quickly passed on and instead looked at Caden and Damyu.

"Take Damyu," Tavis said quietly, "and this."

He slung his rifle off his shoulder and held it out to Volk. Volk stood frozen. Did Tavis intend to give everything of value he had away? It was a repeat of the earlier gesture, but Volk could understand it no more now than he had then. Tavis waited, and Volk finally, reluctantly, took the rifle.

"I'm no sniper," Volk said.

"Maybe not, but you have the training. And where you haven't hunted much, you're gonna need every edge. I'd go with you... but..."

"You do not explain yourself to me," Volk cut him off sharply, "I explain myself to you."

That said, he marched off, calling Damyu to follow him. Damyu would clearly had preferred to keep watching Theran dig around in the mud, but he didn't make even the beginnings of an argument. He was bound to Volk not only because the latter was his leader, but also because he had so fiercely defended Damyu's life. He hadn't had to do that, and Damyu felt there hadn't been much of a good reason for it. Thus, Damyu was loyal as a puppy and willing to follow Volk anywhere.

Tavis watched them go. He knew Volk would return the rifle when he got back.

"Doc, take the watch," Tavis said, and then settled down to pretend he wasn't watching the remaining three, all that was left of fireteam _Fortune_.

He had a decision to make. And a friend to mourn.


	19. Shift

The day came and went, and the rain Tavis had predicted arrived. The clones spent another night in the safety of the rocks, but at dawn the next day Tavis evidently decided that Garm was not coming. To the others -especially Doc- that had seemed evident long before, but none of them said anything.

It was at this time that it became apparent that Tavis had made his decision. That morning, he conferred with Volk and Caden. He didn't have to make it official for Onoff and Phisher to accept it. Caden had less experience than either of them, and Onoff had always thought of Caden as a kid more than anything. But nobody had asked him, and he made no attempt to change Tavis' mind.

Fireteam _Actual_ took the lead. They made sure to keep in visual contact with one another now, not one of them had a working radio. But there was training in place to prepare them for such an eventuality, and the gestures for communication they'd learned were almost as complex and varied as regular speech. And a whole lot quieter too.

Volk had the vague sense that Tavis was foolish, something he'd never taken the corporal for before. But it was clear he favored Caden over the others, though there was no good reason for it. Volk remembered well how skittish Caden had been after being attacked by a lizard.

Maybe that was it. Shared fear, inability to properly cope with something alarming. Was Tavis that stupid? Volk had to wonder, both his personality and position demanded it. Every move Tavis made, every word he said, would be ceaselessly studied by his subordinate. Studied, evaluated, filed away forever in a memory that would not forget or forgive.

As for Phisher, he had thought about what Tavis had said, but could not bring himself to say anything to Onoff. And Onoff couldn't bring himself to ask the accusing question burning in his mind. And so neither said anything to the other and, as a result, grew distant.

It still poured rain, but the pass between the mountains shielded the squad from it, and promise of a journey almost completed, a mission nearly over, made them more resolute in their march than they might otherwise have been. None of them said anything about Mother or Garm.

Time and again they had experienced the death of their brothers. That these two had been closer than any others meant nothing. Death was an inevitability. If it did not come for them, it visited someone else. Acceptance came swiftly, grief barely at all. They went on, filing away in their memories the loss of two brothers, attaching no emotion to that, offering no eulogy to the fallen.

The only splash of sorrow the clones allowed themselves was that Mother and Garm had not died in battle, as soldiers were meant to. Fighting a wild beast did not qualify, nor did drowning. Though both had died with all the honor the situation allowed, they had failed in their set task, the one they'd been created to carry out unto death. They had deserved a better end than that.

Tavis actually felt selfish in what grief he felt. The squad needed Garm, and Tavis had valued Mother's council. Without them, the chances of survival were that much less. The grief Tavis felt was not so much for those who had died, but for himself, that he would never again benefit from their wisdom and skill, and (still more absurdly) that he would never again enjoy their company.

Still, their situation and nature left little time for sadness or mourning. And nobody brought up that this had been Mother's crusade, that there was no order pinning them to their set course. Mother had believed this was their best chance, and nobody could think of a reasonable argument against it.

They were forced to rest after only a half day's trek. Damyu still couldn't match the others. Maybe he would never be able to again. Tavis himself felt glad of the rest. When the Onitheran (the term Damyu had picked for the predators) had slashed at him, it hadn't done him any damage.

The strongest claw had ripped a gash in his armor from the front of the thigh to the outside of the knee, but had only barely broken through at the beginning of its cut, slicing only skin. But the armor was warped now, the broken bits aimed inward. It chafed something awful, Tavis had discovered.

It was during this break that Volk advanced on Onoff without any apparent provocation. Onoff, clearly remembering the last time Volk had rapidly closed the gap between himself and another clone, rose to stand defensive. Volk may not have intended to engage at first, but Onoff's response rendered it a certainty. In a moment, both were rolling on the ground.

Volk had timed his attack well, waiting until Tavis decided to scout ahead, which left him effectively in charge. Damyu and Doc certainly wouldn't intervene, Phisher seemed undecided. But Caden...

Volk felt something kick him in the ribs just as he'd about gotten Onoff pinned. Kicked him hard. Volk rolled to the side, and another kick was applied to his head. Without protest or warning, Caden had come to the defense of Onoff, and now was going on the attack.

His advantage of surprise was limited however, and Volk's armor protected him from kicks that would otherwise have broken bones. He rolled clear of another kick, and then lashed out with one of his own, hitting Caden in the side of the knee, driving him off his feet.

Onoff looked like he was ready for another round, but Phisher held him back. It took mere seconds for Volk to flatten Caden, and pin his adversary's throat beneath his knee.

"You've no place in this fight," he growled.

Theran, who had been playing in a tumbleweed, had come out screeching the moment Caden engaged. Now the chick hopped from one foot to the other, flapping his good wing and grabbing at his own snout with his front limbs in an ecstasy of terror. He knew well that, if his "mother" died, he himself was doomed.

"You've got a problem with one of my men... you bring it to me," Caden managed to snarl between gasps, Volk was cutting off his wind.

"He made the first aggressive move," Volk snapped back, "And not only do I outrank you, I can kick your ass. So keep out of my way."

He rose suddenly, turning to Onoff, whom Phisher now released. Onoff ran at Volk, but was neatly tripped and pinned face down in the mud before he knew what hit him.

"You have a problem," Volk whispered in a low growl, leaning down so only Onoff would hear him, "I don't know what your issue is with Phisher, but you better can it. Tavis may be willing to put up with it, but I will not. I don't care who started it, but you better be the one that finishes it. Clear?"

Onoff muttered something into the mud. Volk let up, and stalked off. Onoff sat up slowly, nervously eying Volk. Caden held out a hand and helped Onoff to his feet, glaring. Volk was a loose cannon, and Caden couldn't for the life of him see why Tavis put up with it.

It made no impact on him that it had been no sneak attack, that it had been a fair fight with Onoff. Volk had no business laying hands on any clone not serving under him. Especially not without Caden's consent. Even if he did outrank Caden on technicality.

Phisher, standing to one side, felt a shiver of familiarity. Nervous, edgy Caden, coming to the defense of one of his own, taking on Volk without standing a chance. Who would have thought it? Except for Tavis, who must have known all along Caden had it in him.

 _He's just like Tay,_ Phisher thought, and then wondered at his own surprise.

If cloning worked the way it ought to, every one of these clones should be just the same.

"Tell me something," Onoff roused Phisher from his thoughts.

Onoff looked a bit put out, and Phisher suddenly knew what the scrap had been all about. Volk had seen the disharmony in his squad, and had taken steps to put an end to it before it got out of control.

"Why are your eyes blue?" Onoff asked.

Phisher sighed. That was a question he did not want to answer. Could not answer.

"What's it to you?" he replied, trying to sound like it was a question he got all the time.

"You're the only clone I've met with blue eyes," Onoff said.

Perhaps Tavis wouldn't lie, but Phisher could.

"Like that's my fault," Phisher snapped, "You got a complaint, send it to the idiot screwed up on makin' me," he turned away abruptly, and felt something unfamiliar stab at him.

Guilt. He'd just lied to his friend.

"That's it? Just a mistake? No other reason?" Onoff asked.

"That's what you're mad about? The fact I don't look just exactly like you?"

Onoff sighed heavily, "When you put it like that... sounds kinda stupid."

"That's because it is," Phisher said, not quite looking at Onoff.

Tavis must have known, or at least suspected what Volk would do. What he would make Onoff do.

 _That sneaky bastard,_ Phisher thought, _Can't lie himself, so he makes me do it._

But, deep inside, Phisher knew a higher truth. It was his lie, not Tavis'. And, in Tavis' honest heart, he probably hoped Phisher would come clean, tell the truth at least to Onoff. But he couldn't do that. Phisher knew how clones felt about spies. Even if they were on the same side. If Onoff knew... he'd kill Phisher. Of that, Phisher was quite certain.

He looked over at Caden, who was still sitting down. You didn't have to be a Jedi to read the feelings of open hostility that radiated from him. Even Theran's excited chirping could do nothing to distract him. Volk had just made an enemy of him. Same as he'd done with Tavis before.

The sound of a blaster shot being fired snapped every man out of whatever thoughts he might have been having. It came from deeper in the canyons, in the direction Tavis had gone. A second shot denoted a struggle rather than quick kill. Volk cocked his head.

"That wasn't Tavis' rifle," Volk said as the others rallied behind him, "Someone else is out there."

A ripple went through the squad. Other clones? Alive? Out here? What would it even mean for them not to be alone anymore? A third shot brought the reality home. Tavis was in trouble.

Volk turned to Caden, who nodded. The two fireteams would split apart, converge on the sound of gunfire. And then they would do what they did best. From that moment, until the fight was finished, they would act as one, without regard for any of the petty rivalries that so marred their daily lives with one another. They would fight. Together.

Tavis wasn't far off, and it didn't take long for the two fireteams to begin closing on the position from opposite sides. They came cautiously, not sure what they were about to face. You didn't fight an Onitheran like a pack of lizards, and there might yet be other animals they knew nothing of.

A high-pitched whistling made Caden duck, and a blaster shot seared the bark of the tree behind him. His first instinct was to take cover, even as he reasoned it must have been an accident. But it was no accident, and following the instinct to slide across the mud behind a boulder saved his life.

"They're shooting at us!" Caden called out.

It was the only warning he had time to give. Stunned, Onoff and Phisher dropped to the ground and crawled over to his position. Caden had no way of knowing what happened to _Actual,_ he couldn't see their position from his own scrap of cover. Nor could he make out Tavis, buried deep in a patch of brush and trees, only the flash of his returning fire gave hint at his location.

"Why the hell are they shooting at us?!" Damyu, across the way with the rest of _Actual_ , cried out.

"Maybe they got offended by Tavis' uniform," Volk replied, "Or maybe he insulted their mothers. How the hell should I know!?"

Nobody pointed out that they didn't have mothers to insult.

Volk's assault on Tavis and subsequently Onoff and Caden were as nothing to this. He had never attacked his brothers with intent to kill. Now he fired a shot, warning the unseen enemy to stay back. It had already occurred to him that these might not be clones, that they might just be carrying clone weapons. After all, he hadn't gotten a look at them before having to duck down.

But then Tavis fired a shot towards an upsweep of rock. It found its mark, who tumbled lifelessly out into the open. There was no mistaking it. That was a clone.

Volk knew those clones could recognize blaster fire every bit as well as he could. They had to know they were firing on other clones. Even if they failed to make radio contact, they would have called out to Tavis before firing on him (assuming he didn't shoot first, an assumption Volk made readily. Tavis was too laid back to fire without significant provocation).

 _Why do they want us dead?_ He wondered silently, _What's the matter with them?_

His own pistol was no defense against rifles, not at this distance. He fired only when he heard a sound or saw motion that indicated the enemy was advancing. Before long, the shooting died down. They must be conserving their weapons too. Clones did not respond well to stand offs, however.

The strange squad made the decision to advance. Spread out, seeking cover and to cover one another, they began a march towards Tavis. That was a fatal mistake. With _Actual_ to his left and _Fortune_ to his right, Tavis was like bait for a trap. The strange squad had eight, but the moment they stepped from cover, their numbers dwindled. They fired on _Fortune_ and _Actual_ , but were swiftly cut down, one after the other, until finally everything was silent once more.

Tavis was the first to leave cover. He stepped over to examine the nearest body, evidently as perplexed as the rest of _Fortune Actual_ as to why he'd been attacked. Volk came next.

"They came outta nowhere," Tavis said, "I told them I was a friendly, but they just shot at me."

Volk peered at the clones, but saw nothing different about them. They were just clones, like he was.

"What do you suppose made 'em act like that?" Volk wondered aloud.

"Damned if I know," Tavis replied.

"We'd best be more careful from now on," Caden said, arriving to stand beside Tavis, "If we've got our own shooting at us, we're in more trouble than I thought."

 _Why? Why would clones shoot at one another? What drove them to this madness?_

There were no answers here. And it seemed less likely than ever that safety lay at the end of this journey. It was possible that _Fortune Actual_ was marching to its own destruction.

The battle shook the clones more than they first realized. They who had learned to hunt, to fight the wilderness and its beasts, who had survived famine and flood alike. It had not been a battle. It had been a slaughter, and they knew it. Those they'd killed had been better armed, and had started it... but they'd never stood a chance. They were too inexperienced, too slow of wit.

And yet, those had been brothers they'd killed. Closer relatives than any natural born person could ever have, cursed to the same fate as those of _Fortune Actual_. Clones were not meant to go around killing one another. It was against everything in their design and their training as well.

This causeless attack made no sense. And yet, Tavis was not too rattled to order the others to go over the bodies of the dead, and take what they needed. To leave the blasters, rations and med-kits would be a senseless waste, just as the loss of life on this day had been. This investigation revealed that the squad of slain clones had been surviving in much the same way as _Fortune Actual_. Weapons nearly drained, rations consisted of hunted food, med-kits were heavily used.

But they had been a complete squad. None had been badly injured. That said something too, and it wasn't just luck. On the other side of the mountains (for that was the only place they could have come from) there must have been more and easier prey. And, from the look of things, more edible plants as well. If the clones had better understood weather patterns, they would have known that the rains had come and gone on the other side of the mountains, everything had been green and growing, leaving predator and prey alike better fed, and the clones' lives easier.

It was how well off these clones had been that concerned Tavis most deeply. If they were well fed, and relatively unharmed... why then would they be going through the canyons to the other side, where life was grim? He didn't know the rain falling from the sky would soon bring to life the apparently barren landscape. But then, neither could the dead clones have known it.

A fall of rocks made a virtual wall across the canyon, and it was this the other squad had used as cover. And it was over this that _Fortune Actual_ must now climb to get to the other side of the mountains. To get to... what? What lay on the other side?

But if there was reluctance to continue the journey among the ranks, no one spoke. And with good reason. The simple truth, the unavoidable truth, was that they had nowhere else to go.

It didn't matter what might lie on the other side of the mountains. There was no going back. There was nothing to go back to. Maybe there was nothing to go towards either... but it was the best option they had. Their only other option was to simply give up and die.

And that, they could not do.


	20. Guardian

The squad had barely escaped intact when Hell rained down from the sky without warning. They had been outside the compound when the fire hit, and saw what had attacked them.

Their leader, Dagger, had at once led his men into the jungle at the base of the mountains, where they could not be seen from above, and where they might stand a chance of surviving.

They had since changed their colors, finding a black, tar-like mud to conceal the glaring white of their armor. It wasn't just about camouflage. It was also a statement. They belonged to GAR no longer, and now fought with the express purpose of survival. _Death Squad_ was the name they called themselves by now, because early on Dagger had discovered that the biggest threat to survival was other clones.

A group of more than nine, or less than six, was doomed. They were too conspicuous, and it was too difficult to get enough to feed them all. Besides, those who had not seen as he had still held loyal to the Republic, and could not be trusted.

Better that they died quick, painless, and with their faith intact. True, they might have argued, but Dagger did not really care. _Death Squad_ was his only concern. Ferocity was his most base response to anything and everything, but it was tinged with a savage intelligence. Dagger had not become a sergeant for no reason. He was skilled, and had the wit to survive.

But he also had in him the innate desire to kill. Not just for food or in self defense. The desire to hunt down and slay his enemies was stronger in him even than most clones. His transformation might have been inevitable anyway, but circumstances brought his base nature to the surface.

When he decided to actively hunt and kill survivors of the attack, his squad did not argue. Perhaps they felt the need to kill singing in their blood as he did. More likely, they were too afraid to argue with him. Aside from which, he had kept them alive. He had taught them to hunt, and to kill predators that would otherwise have eaten them. They were confident in their environment now, and it was thanks to his leadership. They _owed_ him.

The squad that had been killed by _Fortune Actual_ had been in flight for their lives. Mistaking Tavis for a member of the _Death Squad_ , they had panicked and tried to kill him. By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late. Besides which, clones on this side of the mountains had been killing one another for some time, mostly in disputes over food, water and shelter. Dagger had gotten the ball rolling, setting the example that the others unconsciously began to follow.

Dagger and his lot were obviously successful, emulating them seemed the best way to survive. It didn't take as much of a nudge as one might expect to set brothers at each other's throats.

Without instruction or guidance, alone, very much shaken by what had happened and by their evident abandonment, resentful of having been sent here in the first place, and terrified of Dagger, it was only a matter of time before the shooting started.

 _Fortune Actual_ knew none of this, of course.

Nor could they have the faintest inkling that the jungle they were just now entering was inhabited by a threat they had only just barely begun to guess at.

"You ever see so many trees?" Phisher wondered aloud.

He was sure he had... but it seemed like that had been an eternity ago. He could barely remember anything but the plains. He hadn't expected it to be so radically different on this side of the mountains. Over here, there was a fog so thick on the ground he'd almost smacked into a tree without seeing it.

The rain had been unable to follow them, but a persistent dampness hung in the air, and there was no seeing a path through the heavy green foliage with its undergrowth of bushes and tangled vines. It was a living wall of green, so vibrant and alive it was difficult to come to terms with after the insistent brown of the drought-ridden plains on the other side.

"Well holy shit," Onoff commented, arriving on the ridge Phisher stood on and looking downward at the sprawling jungle landscape, "Nobody said anything to me about this."

They were so stunned by this change of scenery that it took a moment for Onoff to come to his senses and give Phisher a nudge. They both crouched down to make lesser targets of themselves. It would have seemed foolish yesterday, in spite of being a good habit, but they had no idea who might be out there wanting to shoot them.

"We're not equipped for jungle warfare," Onoff pointed out in a harsh whisper.

"I'm more concerned about what else we don't know," Phisher replied coolly, his voice also quiet, "This doesn't look like a place those lizards would like to hang out. The Onitherans, maybe. But where there's plant life, there are herbivores, and where there are herbivores-" Onoff interrupted him.

"Yeah, don't remind me. We really are in a mess, aren't we?" he shook his head, the question was rhetorical.

"This is not what I signed up for," Phisher breathed, then bit his tongue.

Clones didn't sign on for anything. They were essentially drafted at birth.

"What, they didn't teach you vine swinging in boot camp?" Onoff scoffed.

He'd either missed the implication of Phisher's statement, or thought it was merely a figure of speech.

A few minutes later, the rest of the squad arrived. Tavis was oddly silent, and stared at the forest for many non-believing seconds. The savanna world had... a jungle? Nobody had told him anything about that, it was in none of the files he'd read. It should have been. Terrain was always well documented, as it was often the most important factor in whether clones lived or died.

Then he shook himself, wondering at his own surprise. Being attacked far from the front lines, the Onitherans, getting shot at by his own kind... a jungle wasn't much more bizarre than those things.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Not much farther now. Jungle or no jungle, he was going to keep the squad heading straight for the outpost on this side of the mountains. He had reservations, of course. What if the clones there attacked them? What if there was no outpost anymore? But there was no going back. Only going forward. For them, it was the only thing to do.

"Volk, your fireteam will take over on point," Tavis said, wishing he could be at the head of the line.

But he'd already nearly gotten himself killed once tonight. And that was enough. Besides, farseeing eyes wouldn't do him any good in this fog and close-growing plant life. However, Volk's quick reflexes probably would. In close quarters, it was unlikely that there was a clone more dangerous.

Of course, Tavis hadn't met Dagger. Yet.

The moment they descended into the jungle, Tavis had the feeling of being watched. And of being closed in. Having spent so much time in the open, he felt uncomfortable being surrounded by the enveloping arms of the wet, dark green jungle with its thick trailing fog.

It was evident that the others shared his sense of paranoid claustrophobia. Even Theran seemed to be oppressed, flattening his long body against Caden's shoulder and hissing soft complaints.

In spite of everything, they had begun moving with confidence and sureness of step on the plains. Now they moved slowly, twitching towards every unfamiliar sound. Menace lurked in these trees with their attire of thick vines and leaves that were dark from above, but sallow on the underside. It was as though a person was using finery and garish dress to conceal a sickness. And it worked almost as well.

Suddenly, Damyu couldn't take it anymore. He abruptly turned and made as if to bolt back the way they'd come. Tavis swiftly caught him, pinned him to the ground. He said nothing, and did not beat on Damyu, who thrashed wildly without speaking for a long moment before settling.

The others stood watching dumbly. They too felt like panicking, but weren't about to admit it.

Damyu had been struck hard by the memory of the shadowy movement in a tree, followed by the searing pain of the chucklehead's bite. Every shadow resembled the hellish creature, and the fevered nightmares which had followed an encounter with it.

"Damyu-," Volk began, but Tavis looked up and shook his head, and Volk turned away, swearing under his breath as he did so.

"You got hold of yourself?" Tavis asked Damyu, who nodded meekly.

Tavis let him up, and Damyu got to his feet and stood trembling slightly. Tavis looked around, trying to scan a horizon that was simply not there for danger. And then he started forward. Volk immediately launched himself ahead, reclaiming the point to which he'd been assigned. Doc and Damyu fell in behind him, and _Fortune_ strung out after them.

They soon came to a small glen with a stream running through it. Habit more than necessity made them stop and fill their canteens. It was then that they were attacked. Not from any one direction, but seemingly from all of them at once.

The first shot bore Tavis to the ground, and Volk found himself shouting orders to take cover while he ran dead away from it, towards his prone leader. Skidding to a stop on his knees, he found that the shot Tavis had taken had been straight to the leg. Whoever fired the shot had seen the weak point of his armor, and knew it was of more import to drop him than to possibly kill him or maybe have the shot ping off the thick helmet all troopers wore.

The wound was far worse than it would normally have been, typically armor provided a good amount of protection. Frankly, given the circumstances, Volk was relieved when Tavis moved his leg, which confirmed that it was still attached to him.

"Come on! Get up!" Volk snarled, looking around wildly for who was shooting at them and where from.

Shots rang out, and he realized belatedly that they were surrounded, and at least some portion of the enemy were up in trees, others on the ground, all of them apparently invisible.

"Get! Up!" Volk pulled on Tavis' shoulders, but the Corporal only moaned and writhed in the least helpful way possible, "Dammit, this is no time to be dazed!"

A shot landed near him and Volk growled wordlessly. From the cover of a skimpy rock formation beside the stream came a shot from Damyu. It missed; he could no more see his target than Volk could. But the shooting from that direction paused for a moment.

It was enough. Doc darted out and assisted Volk in pulling Tavis to what seemed to be the only source of safety. But the cover was incomplete, and the enemy surrounded them. Volk knew they had no chance. It was the same situation they'd encountered earlier, only in reverse.

"Why the hell do our guys want us dead!? What did we ever do to them?" Onoff demanded of nobody.

"Give up!" called out a stranger whose voice matched their own, "And you'll die quickly."

"I do not intend to die at all!" Volk roared back, though he was bluffing and everyone knew it, "Come and fight us fairly, or are you all cowards!?"

Of course, to a clone, a fair fight was any one which he could win. Fairness, mercy and the like were not a part of their training. Win, by any means necessary, was the name of the game, and the only way you could play if you hoped to survive. Where their enemies were not typically alive, this was usually a sound one, and the question of morality seldom came up.

The shots came less frequently now, and Volk knew the shooters were looking for better positions from which to slaughter _Fortune Actual_. It was only a matter of time, but it would take time, because the hidden enemies did not want to be wounded themselves and were taking great pains to remain unseen.

"You see something moving, you shoot it until it quits," Volk hissed, eyes locked on the heavily leaved tree from which the voice had issued, seeking something alive in that curtain of green.

A shot rang out, and Volk felt a hot flash of pain in his shoulder. The impact spun him until he lay on his back. He exhaled sharply through his teeth. It was just a graze, but another inch or so and he'd have been really in trouble. In a moment, the shooter would have found that inch.

But then something happened. There was a yell, and a body tumbled from a tree. Peering over the rocks, Volk saw a clone in strangely black armor. A new voice called out, giving warning.

"Next one to fire a shot joins him," Volk couldn't believe what he heard.

Not the words, but the voice. It was a voice just like his own, of course. But the inflection... he knew who it was, but still couldn't believe it.

A shot was fired in the direction of the voice, but its owner had slipped away through the trees. A moment later, the shooter was flung out into the open. Clad in black like the other, this body rolled away to the stream, and its head went tumbling after it.

"I mean it!" the newcomer shouted, "I will kill you all if I have to. Go now!"

There was no sound, no sight. But, all of a sudden, the sense of menace and danger decreased and then was gone. Dagger had had enough. He could not afford to lose more fighters to this devil in the shadows, whoever it might be. There would be another chance at another time.

After it was certain the attackers were gone, the rescuer hopped down from the tree branch he'd perched on to kill the second clone, bloodied knife still in hand.

"Garm!" Caden cried out with delight, scrambling gracelessly to his feet and running over to throw a welcoming arm around his brother's shoulders.

And Garm it was. Muddy, battered, breathless, but still very much alive. He had tracked them here. Armed with nothing but a knife, he had proceeded to wage war on the _Death Squad_ , a strategy which was rendered effective because it was so surprising.

He had sneaked up on the first clone and offed him, then moved away at once, knowing that shots would be fired in his direction. He had already known where his second target was, it had been pure happenstance that it was the next one to shoot.

But it had been a bluff. There was no way he could have gotten to the other side of the glen unnoticed. Unlike Volk's, his had worked. He had rattled his opponent badly. Dagger had never encountered clones whose ferocity of attack matched his own, and he was wiser than to test them without a plan.

"You guys okay?" Garm asked, his gaze flicking to Volk's bloodied shoulder.

"I'm fine," Volk growled, "But Tavis..."

"Tavis-" Tavis grunted with the effort to sit up, "-is also fine."

But it was a lie, and the lot of them knew it. Alive, and with a wound that should not have been fatal. But not fine. The wound to his leg was severe, and it was obvious to all that Tavis could not walk.

And that... might well be fatal.


	21. Aftermath

If Garm was at all upset about having been left behind, he gave no sign of it. He was his usual alert self, choosing always to take the rearguard position in a march unless otherwise ordered. His fondness for Theran was immediate and very apparent, but the chick did not reciprocate and tried to nip him whenever he got anywhere near. But that did not deter him from watching the chick play, and he was truly ferocious in his defense of it against the jungle bugs.

And the bugs were truly monsters. There were the flying ones, with stingers so large they were visible to the naked eye, and the crawling ones with huge black mandibles. The biting ones were like ants, and swarmed over any victim they got hold of. Garm ruthlessly slayed them by the hundreds with his knife whenever they chanced upon an area where Theran was playing. The five inch long beasts made a hideous squelching noise when stabbed, but Garm seemed to find it very satisfying.

As for Caden, he seemed perfectly content to let Garm play guard dog for the chick, and seemed to have every confidence that Theran was entirely safe under Garm's care. The chick did not agree, and would come scampering after Caden whenever he drifted away. He also stubbornly refused to accept food from any hand save Caden's, in spite of Garm's attempts to share his own limited rations. The chick's snubs seemed to cut him deeply, but he never gave up trying.

In the meantime, Caden took it into his head that the chick needed to be able to follow orders just like any good soldier. And so he tried to remember exactly where and how his own training had begun. It didn't take him long to recall. The first formal education had been long before his military training began in earnest. Stay. Follow. Go here. Now go over there. Eat this food. Look at that screen.

Well, you had to start with something, and Caden decided that Stay was going to be first in Theran's education. Theran had other ideas. Upon being ordered to 'stay', he would immediately and without fail go running directly away from Caden. He would find a rock or bush or something to hide under, where Caden could not get at him, and proceed to hiss obscenities in the tongue of Onitherans.

Caden couldn't put up with much, because the only training times were meant to be rest times. He had to rest, or stand watch, just like the others. He had little time to train the mangy stray.

"Fine," he said eventually, throwing up his hands, "You want to ignore me, so be it."

Once he settled down to sleep, the chick crawled out of hiding and came to perch on his side. Caden pointedly ignored him. And continued to ignore him. Theran was soon desperate for attention, and took to squeaking and pawing at Caden during the day. At which, the clone coldly pried the chick from his shoulder and set it on the ground. The chick could not fly anymore, and was forced to run after him.

Within a day, Theran was more agreeable to learning commands. If that's what it took to ensure that Caden protected him, cared for him and continued to feed him, Theran realized he had to accept it. Caden, it turned out, was very good at recognizing the difference between obstinance and confusion.

Caden did have a great deal of difficulty grasping what motivated the chick. Unlike a clone, Theran had absolutely no sense of duty, and little of loyalty. He didn't perform simply to make Caden happy, nor was "for the good of the squad" an effective incentive for the creature. Onitherans were loners by nature, and typically answered to no one for any reason. Even chicks did not generally obey their mothers. In the end, it was a matter of coercion and bribery. Do this for a bit of food, do that and I'll play with you, do something else and maybe I won't ignore you for the next hour.

It was very taxing on a clone's patience.

After the attack, Volk had scouted out a place to make camp, and Tavis had half-limped, half-been carried there. For three days, the marches were merely patrols. The clones familiarized themselves with the lay of the land, learned to watch for tracks left by their own kind, and began to speculate about what animals and plants could be eaten, and how exactly one should go about it.

Through it, Tavis said nothing, did nothing, and hoped Volk would give it up and leave with the rest of the squad. Volk was kidding himself if he thought Tavis was going to be able to walk any time soon, and they couldn't just hang out in the mountainside cave Volk had discovered forever. They had a duty to uphold, both to the Republic and to Mother as well.

The fact was, Tavis was getting worse, not better. The humidity of the jungle, combined with the severity of the wound, made infection all but inevitable, in spite of what Doc could do. Tavis sensed, in the same way as a dying animal, that soon he wouldn't have the sense to know whether or not the things he saw and heard around him were real. And he knew that, when that happened, he would become worse than a liability- he could become dangerous.

If he mistook one of his brothers for something else, he could kill them before they realized they were in danger. It wouldn't take a great deal of strength or very much in the way of aim.

But Volk, it seemed, had a great deal of difficulty understanding. Even Doc (so far as Tavis was concerned) seemed to have his worries pinned on the wrong wall.

There are many gaps in a clone's education. He must be taught rapidly, must learn everything he needs to know by heart, so that there will be no mistakes, no hesitation on the battlefield. And, though raised for warfare, he had very little time in which to learn everything perfectly. By their design, the clones had a very short childhood and, once fully grown, it was almost no time at all before they were shipped out. Some of the ones grown before the start of the war knew a bit more, as they had more time to get educated. But these clones had, in some ways, a very slap-dashed sort of schooling.

Specialists such as mechanics and medics often had knowledge gaps others did not, because they had the same time to train as the others, but must learn things others did not have to know. Because of their intended position and function, these knowledge gaps were seldom discovered.

Perhaps a real medic knew what became of a clone once injured. But Doc wasn't a medic, he knew only as much as the next clone. A wounded clone was shipped off, and may or may not return in time. Generally speaking, immediate medical aid was all you had to worry about, not days or weeks waiting for a transport. At least, _his_ education counted on someone else taking over quickly.

First aid was something clones knew. Setting bone, stopping bleeding, that kind of thing. They had a very limited awareness of drugs, namely the intended purpose for the ones in their kits.

But that knowledge stopped short of the aftermath. Volk had a terrible time comprehending the nature of Tavis' injury. The bone was not broken, and the wound had bled very little. Doc, through experience rather than training, had a little more sense.

"I don't get it," Volk commented once, "I was shot, and I'm getting better. Why isn't he?"

"At best," Doc said in a voice of limited patience, "You got a graze. A panic shot that could just as easily have missed you entirely. Tavis was the first to be hit, probably the first shot taken. Before we were reacting, and before anybody got excited. The shooter had all the time in the world to line up a shot."

Volk didn't have to ask why not just aim for the head. He already knew the answer to that very well. If he'd been lining up the shot, he'd have aimed for where the armor was weakest. What he did not know about medicine he made up for in tactics (or so he routinely told himself). A slight turn of the head could ruin a shot to the helmet. You really wanted to aim for the visor, and that was a pretty narrow window. He knew because he'd been taught the weakest parts of his armor, so that he might expose them to the enemy as little as he possibly could.

"I've seen clones shot multiple times get up and keep moving," Volk said instead of asking a question he knew the answer to already, "what gives with Tavis?"

"Were you raised in a weapons' locker?" Doc hissed, exasperated, "The Separatists have weapons similar to ours. No, no, shut up. Medically speaking, they're virtually identical. Both ours and theirs are designed to be armor piercing. By the same token, their armor and ours is designed to resist such a shot. That's why you go for the head, the joints, the visor. Don't matter if it's a droid or a man, it makes no difference. Those are the places the armor is weak, those are the places you get a chance of a kill shot. What you've seen is clones who were protected by their armor. What do you think would happen if a clone were blasted if he wasn't armored up? He'd splatter a thousand ways from Sunday, that's what would happen to him. Depending on the blaster setting, of course."

"What's that got to do with-"

"Tavis might as well have been running around naked for all the protection his armor gave him. Just be glad it was a very small target, and that we haven't got any vital organs in our legs. Otherwise he'd be dead already. As it is, he's not much better off."

Volk opened his mouth to say something, but Doc's next comment caught him off guard.

"Besides... looking him over right after he was shot, I'd swear he was sick before he got hit."

"Come again?" Volk said, a trifle sharply.

"Really sick. And I think he's been sick for awhile now."

As mentioned previously, clones don't typically "get sick". They don't normally acquire a virus or the flu or anything of the kind. In addition to a sturdy immune system, they are given a veritable fruit cocktail of shots before ever leaving Kamino. Getting sick didn't compute for Volk.

Poison he could understand, fatigue he could sympathize with, even infection he could sort of follow. But sick... that he was not sure how to cope with or respond to. What did sick even really mean?

"How long is awhile?" Volk decided to ask, even though it wouldn't help.

"I'd say... at least since the attack. The original one, on our posting. Maybe longer."

"He didn't... he never showed..." Volk shook his head, trying to reconcile one thought with another and getting nowhere rapidly.

"He wouldn't," Doc replied sensibly, "None of us would. Not if we could help it. Whatever it is, it's acting like a slow poison. He probably didn't even realize how sick he was, and none of us would have noticed because the change was so gradual. But he's sick, and his system's in no shape to fend off the infection he's got now. Volk... Tavis is going to die if we don't get him out of here."

Volk shook his head impatiently. He'd already gathered _that_. It was in his training to get the wounded off the battlefield as quickly as possible, and into hands more capable than his own. Assuming it was a reasonable course of action. If it risked the squad or success of the mission, Volk would be just as quick to leave a brother behind. Or would have been. But something had changed.

Doc knew it, and so did the others. All of them could see that Tavis wasn't getting stronger, wasn't getting up, and wasn't going to help them succeed. If they stayed with him, they would fail. Volk's decision to stay made no sense. Not with his character, and not with the situation. But nobody would dare say that out loud. Not to Volk's face anyway.

"This... sickness... what is it? I mean... what does it do?" Volk had never been interested in medicine, but he had a compelling reason for asking.

He'd thought of Tavis as being shady, and a bit of an oddball. But was it possible his opinions had been shaped by some outside force, something that wasn't really Tavis at all?

Volk knew enough of the world to know that things are not always what they seem.

"It would probably slow his reflexes down, maybe cloud his mind. I don't know. I'm not a doctor, much as you'd all like me to be. For all I know, we could be lucky he recognizes any of us."

"But it could affect his mind?" Volk pressed.

"Of course," Doc replied, once again irritated by what he thought of as a stupid question, "Anything that affects the body can do a tap dance in your head too. Pain does funny things to the brain, you know. You may think you've got it blocked out, but just because you can't feel it consciously doesn't mean it ain't there, fiddlin' with your ability to think clearly. You put bad fuel in an engine and it'll cough before the line corrodes, almost guaranteed."

Volk had no idea what Doc was on about now. But he also didn't really care. He had the answer he was looking for. Sort of. But what was he going to do with it? What _could_ he do with it?

"How would he get sick?" Volk asked, ignoring Doc's continued mutterings about engines and fuel lines and other things Volk didn't understand, "Something he ate? Somewhere he went?"

"Sure, maybe," Doc shrugged indifferently, "Don't see as it matters now."

"I think it does," Volk replied, his voice becoming a low growl.

Doc flinched. He didn't like it when Volk took that tone. It usually meant he was about to beat the crap out of someone or something. And Doc didn't much want to be the someone.

But before Volk could say or do anything further, Caden came jogging over, and fidgeted worriedly until Volk deigned to notice him.

"Tavis is gone," he quickly, noting the tension in the air without asking about it.

"Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?" Volk snapped, turning on Caden, who didn't back up a step through some heroic inner willpower Doc did not possess.

"I mean he left. I don't know how he got past Garm," Garm was on watch, "or moved without my noticing. I was just a few yards off, wide awake. But I'm telling you... Tavis is gone."

Volk closed his eyes briefly. The how wasn't important. The why he knew better than anyone else. When an animal is dying, it leaves the group. Perhaps to keep them safe from the scavengers which will come for its body. Maybe to keep disease from the group. Maybe just to spare them the grief.

Volk, a creature of instinct, knew and understood what Tavis had done. Tavis knew he was not getting better, and that he was a danger to the squad, no longer an asset. He was trying to spare Volk the difficulty of making the decision to leave his brother behind or doom the whole squad.

"What are we going to do?" Doc asked.

And Volk, the same Volk who had once considered killing Tavis, the selfsame Volk who had recommended leaving Garm behind and assuming him dead, made his choice.

"We're going to find him."


	22. A Wounded Animal

Phisher had been right. The lizards avoided the jungle, their loping gait was ill-suited to the close network of tree and vine and undergrowth. The chuckleheads nested in the trees near the edge of the jungle, but did not venture deeper. Their wings were too large for the closed space, they could not take off and land safely.

Nevertheless, the jungle was full of life. Largely unseen, the beasts of the jungle hissed, cackled, shrieked, sang and called to one another almost constantly during the day.

Large-eyed ape things with feathers instead of fur hung from dual tails, gibbering and clapping at anything threatening. A scaly frog-legged animal about a foot long unfurled a great, bright red crest, signaling that it was poisonous. Cackling snakes with little lemur hands and no legs slinked along tree limbs, grins on their ridiculous faces. A green flower with antelope legs shrieked and unleashed defensive cilia from its center, then bounded away blindly, for it had no eyes. From the almost ordinary to the quite extraordinary to the completely unique, the forest blazed with life.

Tavis was dead to it all.

Quietly, he had slipped away when nobody was paying attention. It hadn't been easy. His right leg wouldn't move, and he was required to drag it, keeping his balance by holding onto trees and vines. More than once, he started to tumble, and hit his shoulder hard against a dark tree root or became caught in a circle of deep yellow-green vines.

At the foot of the mountain, the ground was rocky, and there was little trail. The vines were strong and did not break, and Tavis kept clear of twigs and leaf litter. He had learned from his time on Onithera how to be invisible. Had learned by practice and by observation of the wildlife. It was not a part of his training. Stealth was to a moderate degree, but leaving no trail was hardly in his expected line of work.

Before long, Tavis turned from the mountains and headed for deeper forest. He knew that, if anyone looked for him, they would follow the rocky areas, knowing that he was attempting to leave no trail. But they could not know when he left the rocks for softer soil. An infinite amount of troopers with all the time in the world could comb the area and find him, but the number of _Fortune Actual_ was extremely limited, and they had better things to do with their time.

A large red insect with enormous black mandibles scuttled up along the animal path Tavis was following. It wiggled bulbous eyes at him, and then stepped out of the path. But it followed him.

So this was what a jungle scavenger looked like. A big, ugly beetle. It was not the biggest insect ever, really about the height of a cat, and mostly legs at that. But it was big enough to be unsettling, and the clicking mandibles were undoubtedly powerful. And its friends soon came to join it.

Before long Tavis had three of them following him. It was not deeply concerning. Not anymore. He had no intention of being eaten alive but, after he was dead, it would no longer matter.

He went on for over a mile, every step of it was agony. And then he decided he'd come far enough.

He curled up on a shelf of rock, and took a position somewhere between sitting and lying down, facing the hungry beetles, his back protected by a knoll behind him. The beetles clicked their mandibles, but agreed to wait. He was still much too lively for them.

Menacing as they were, they were fragile as glass. One kick would shatter those hideous jaws of theirs. Tavis didn't know that, but he could guess it from the respectful distance the beetles kept to. They would wait, patiently as a beetle can, until he was no longer dangerous. That was alright.

It had taken Tavis three times as long to get this far than it would have normally. He didn't know that, and didn't especially care either. He knew that distance was not such an important thing. That he could not be found was. There were a million places to hide in just a square mile of jungle, and he did not think the squad would be too persistent. In fact, he was counting on Volk to insist they move on. The only one liable to protest was Caden, maybe Garm if he was in a contrary mood. But Volk would not permit argument. He'd flatten them both, if he had to.

There was no sense of shirked responsibility. Tavis could not take care of the squad any more. No talk, no determination, no power of positive thinking would heal his leg. There was nothing in Doc's medkit that could effectively fight off the infection that raged and burned him up inside. He had done all he could do for them, and now all that was left was for him to die.

Death and he were old companions. Death had stalked even in his formative years, when a training accident had claimed the lives of two clones he had bunked next to for his whole existence. Death had issued its haunting, irresistible call to more than one member of _Fortune Actual_. Tavis knew it would only be a matter of time before he and everyone he knew answered. It was an unavoidable part of living, having death follow you everywhere. He accepted it, and was not afraid.

He lay still, and waited for that call now.

He did not wonder what lay on the other side, such curiosity had not been given to him. Just as he had never speculated about worlds beyond Kamino, never once fantasized about things which may or may not exist in the vast reaches of space, he had never given thought to what, if anything, happened after death. Like going to space, it was something that would happen to him when it happened, and then he would know. Then, and only then, not before.

Oh, he knew about space intellectually before shipping out. The properties that made it what it was, and what it would do to an unprotected clone's body. He knew the names and images of a thousand planets and their "relevant" inhabitants. But that was the same as saying he knew that his body would decompose after he died. It prepared him for little, and meant nothing.

As he had done all of his life, Tavis sat and awaited instructions. He felt little sense of personal failure. He knew he had done all he could to protect and lead the squad. They had come this far, now Volk would have to take them the rest of the way. Regret had no place here. Nor guilt.

It is a wondrous feature of dying to know that you do not control fate, that things are happening now, and will continue happening after you die, and that you'll have naught to do with any of it, and it is just as well that you do not. At least, that is how it is for some.

Being still, and having no other motivations, Tavis began to relax for the first time... perhaps ever, and certainly since the assault on the outpost. Motionless and without concern, he found the pain either drained away, or he became unaware of it. Either way, he liked the way just drifting made him feel. All the tension, the pent-up anxiety he'd been ignoring, everything... just faded away.

When the loud clack of mandibles in his face warned him that the beetles were moving in, Tavis opened his eyes and growled, not even forcing his brain enough into gear to form a word or to raise a blaster against them. They backed off, chittering, not sure what he was capable of.

Tavis sank back, eying them with a twinge of resentment. If they wanted to eat him, fine. But they might at least have the courtesy to wait for him to lose consciousness first. He didn't realize that he'd been so still, his breathing so shallow, that they had believed he was dead.

His sudden spring to life rattled them. They could sense the extent of Tavis' sickness. Normally, an animal in this kind of shape was still aggressive, making a big show by snapping, snarling, kicking and mock charging as best it was able, until it passed into exhaustion. But these were not necessarily futile measures. Animals could sometimes come back from hideous injuries, terrible infections and mangling of limbs. The ferocious defense was a last ditch attempt to survive. As it turned out, the survival instinct of one of those feathered apes was stronger than a clone's.

But did that make them more intelligent? Probably not. Tavis' indifference to the beetles' proximity meant he did not waste valuable energy attempting to chase them away. Even as he had accepted the inevitability of his own demise, his body still worked to prevent it.

He was not deathly ill, and knew it. But he was going to be if he didn't get help, and help wasn't coming. He had left because he had awareness of his situation, not merely because of the animal instinct to go somewhere away from his own kind to die.

" _Scree!"_ the beetles shrieked and skittered into the undergrowth.

Tavis opened his eyes to see what had disturbed them. At first, he thought it was Death incarnate. But then his feverish mind recalled the squad of clones, the two dead ones had been wearing black. This apparition must be one of them. Tavis observed the intruder with little interest.

Dagger had been out on his own, testing the effectiveness of the _Fortune Actual_ patrols for days. He'd been attracted by the sounds of mandible clacking. The beetles only did that when they were waiting for something to die. Dagger had expected to find an animal, not a clone.

The other clone was slightly above the level of the ground, and could probably see over the tops of the low bushes, and there was little but trees to provide cover. Dagger had made a mistake coming this close before being sure of what he was looking at. And now there was nowhere to hide. His one chance was to outdraw Tavis, which seemed quite doable.

"Do as you like," Tavis said in a low voice, "I've no intention of moving from this spot."

Dagger edged away, grimacing involuntarily (not that anyone could see; Dagger had his helmet) at the tone of voice. It was not defeat he heard, that would have been bad enough. The acceptance of the dying is alarming, and the first instinct is to flee, the second to kill. Anyone who denies that is living in a fantasy. Most people simply ignore the instincts, and interpret them as "being uncomfortable around sick people", refusing to give voice to the truth in their heart.

Dagger was not such a fool as most. He knew what he heard, and knew why he didn't like it. But he did lie to himself. He made claim that he hated death. The truth was far more distressing. When he saw the building burning in the night, the place that had been his assigned home for the last month, he'd felt a profoundly bewildering mix of emotions. He was intoxicated by the scent of death. He loved it. But he also was terrified of it. Deep down, he was afraid to die. So afraid that he was eager to inflict it upon anything and everything around him, just to keep it distracted from himself (though that made no logical sense, Dagger hadn't thought his desires through carefully and so had never once attempted to apply logic to his motivations).

Now he felt that familiar urge to run, to get away from this place of death as rapidly as possible. And his fear fueled an ancient fury, the rage of one who is afraid and hates that feeling above all others.

A beetle made the mistake of clacking at him, hoping he would go away.

In a single motion, he swiped his blaster pistol from its holster, whirled to face the beetle and blasted it. The creature, quite literally, exploded. Beetle fragments flew in all directions, green gooky stuff splattered against the tree trunks and other beetles. They shrank back for a moment, and then bent their heads to pick up and munch the pieces of their dead brethren. Unlike the lizards, they would not attack their wounded, but cannibalism was not beneath them. A trash compactor doesn't refuse to do its job if you put a trash can inside of it. And these living garbage disposals were no different.

Dagger snarled an epithet at them, his tone laced with disgust. Tavis said nothing and did not move.

When the beetles continued to munch, Dagger lost it. He fired on them again and again, until they were just a pile of crunchy shells and goo dripping from the trees. He kept firing until, panting, he stopped and staggered back, growling more like an animal than a person.

As he stumbled away, Tavis addressed him for the second time.

"You are sicker than I, my brother," Tavis said, and his words echoed inside Dagger's head.

Shaking his head, Dagger suddenly changed course, lurching towards Tavis, who watched impassively. Wild-eyed, Dagger took a shot at him. And missed.

Dagger yelped as though struck. Point blank, and he'd missed. Tavis waited for him to regain whatever shreds of composure might be left in his soul (assuming he had such a thing). Waited for him to try again. But Dagger never got the chance, because something launched itself from the bushes at him.

No, not something. _Someone_.

The squad had split up to search for Tavis. Garm, hearing shots, had abandoned the search and headed straight for them. Abandoning any semblance of civilization, he launched himself full upon Dagger without the least sound of warning. The blaster Dagger held dropped from his hand and spun away into the brush. So ferocious and unexpected was Garm's attack that Dagger found himself lying on his back almost before he realized what was happening.

He kicked at Garm, and tried to go for his blade, but Garm did not close with Dagger, instead dodging free and disappearing into the brush. As Dagger was getting to his feet, Garm launched a second attack, again knocking Dagger to the ground. Dagger kept his knife, and slashed with it, but came away only with the outer skin of Garm's armor as a result.

A crashing sound in the undergrowth told Dagger that more clones were on the way. Looking around wildly, he could not catch a glimpse of Garm, in spite of the bright white armor. This was not a fight he could win, and the mania that had resulted from sensing death close by had faded. With a roar more fitting for a lion than a clone, Dagger lunged into the jungle and was gone before Garm could have another go.

Tavis cocked his head at the sound of other clones approaching. He counted them, knew them by their steps. Garm was already here. Next came Caden. Doc. Phisher. Onoff. Damyu. And... Volk.

They did not have to tell him why they had come. It had not been because of the sounds of a fight. It was not that Garm had run off (he never would). They had come for Tavis.

All that remained of _Fortune Actual_... had come to find _him_.

They gathered in the clearing, Volk in front of the others, who ranged out behind him with little or no formal organization. And Volk stood there for a long time, as though thinking very hard about what he wanted to say. Or maybe what he had to say. Finally, he said it.

"Alright, we're all here. Where to next, sir?"


	23. Impactical Measures

Animals can be surprisingly loyal to one another, especially mothers with cubs. But when it is clear that no amount of protecting, nor providing nor pushing will keep the wounded alive, and when the survival of those uninjured is at stake, they have the sense to abandon the dying to their fate.

By all rights, that is exactly what Volk ought to have done. By all sense, both sentient and baser instinct, he should not have come searching for Tavis. His loyalty could be commended, but only by an idiot who did not realize that it would likely cost him his life. Him, and what was left of his squad.

Tavis did not understand. Could not. But he knew that was hardly necessary.

He saw and accepted that Volk would not abandon him, and the rest of the squad followed without question. He wondered if Volk understood the cruelty of his actions, forcing responsibility upon one who is no longer able to bear the strain of the load. If Tavis did nothing, then so too would the squad. If he died, Volk made it imminently clear that the rest of _Fortune Actual_ was likely to join him.

Pain followed pain, from morning until night (Tavis was unable to cope with travel and night-vision at the same time, and Volk guessed that _Death Squad_ was most active after dark anyway). Tavis managed only the slowest of paces, even with Volk practically carrying him (Volk would let no other carry Tavis, and assigned Garm to semi-permanent guard of the Corporal), and rest had to be frequent and rather lengthy. Tavis did his level best to keep his pain to himself, but more than occasionally it was a cry of anguish tearing out of him that made Volk call a halt.

Little was asked of Tavis; Volk did the troop arrangements, assigned men to the night watch, and led hunting parties (those walking flowers were abhorrent to look upon, but quite edible, as were the owl-eyed apes, if you could figure how to get them in firing range). In short, Volk did everything but lead. It was invariably Tavis who had to rise in the morning and take the first step towards their goal.

As one, the squad would rise with him, Volk pulling one of Tavis' arms across his shoulders and the others closing around them like a royal guard. Tavis was halfway embarrassed, and most thoroughly baffled by the entire proceeding. He was worthless to the squad. Less than worthless, he was an active hindrance to their forward progress and ate food he had not rightfully earned (the others did not eat until Volk told them, and he would not let them until Tavis had eaten. By this method did he secure Tavis' continued survival).

But it was complete idiocy, all of it. There wasn't one of them who didn't know that Tavis was getting sicker. His fever crept higher, the area around his wound became red and inflamed. During conversation, he had spells of incoherency which even Damyu couldn't overlook and, by the end of each day, he was asking where they were going and if there wasn't a walker somewhere nearby.

Yet each morning he was cursed (or blessed, depending on who you asked) with full awareness, and the unending, torturous knowledge that he must get up, must take that first step, or else it would not be taken and the squad he'd fought so hard for would die.

Tavis couldn't say for certain when he'd stopped caring about the GAR, or the Republic in general. But he had. He had but one motivation now, only one thing guiding him, and that was the continued survival of his squad. Like Dagger, he cared nothing for other squads, they could all die from neglect for all he cared. He was not sentimental or saintly. But for _Fortune Actual_ , the survival of his squad, he was willing to do anything. And that meant pulling himself to his one good leg, often by means of nearby vines, and taking a hopping step that would signal to the rest of the squad that he meant to move on. Every day he woke, and knew that he must do it if his squad was to live.

The journey was technically all downhill, but the uneven terrain meant that sometimes they were climbing up. Or up and down, which was pure Hell for Tavis. But the worst was yet to come.

They made only scant progress in the week of their march. Tavis could not travel quickly or for long periods, and the squad's pace was set by him. Still, little progress in comparison with normal travel speeds of troopers was still mile after mile after endless mile of trees, vines, brush, biting insects, oppressive humidity and blinding fog in an unerringly straight line (insured by compasses as much as internal sense of direction), and each step towards their goal was another step they would never have to think about taking again, each and every inch gained was a victorious yell against nature itself.

Garm took his duties as guard very, very seriously. Anything came within thirty feet of Tavis, Garm either shot it or ripped it to pieces with his knife. That "anything" very nearly included the rest of the squad; Garm only reluctantly suffered to let them past his invisible line, across which nothing else would be allowed, no matter what size or disposition it might be.

Their one encounter with other clones came to what some might consider a tragic end as a result. A lone clone appeared, bedraggled and dazed. He had somehow eluded Onoff, who was on watch, but then he staggered into the clearing like a drunk. Grasping for a blaster at sight of other clones, he set a foot on Garm's line. Garm rose tensely, but it was the step across that caused him to pull his own blaster out, aim and fire. Single shot, right through the chest. The loner collapsed, twitched and died.

They did not pause to mourn him. Confused as he might have been, he had posed a danger, and Garm did not tolerate threats to his own. He was not rebuked for his actions, nobody found fault with them.

Meanwhile, Theran had doubled in weight, and learned how to dig tunnels effectively. He had begun to eat burrowing animals, and depended less on Caden for food as a result. But, though instinct told him his "mother" should return for him, Theran knew Caden wouldn't be coming back. Caden had only to whistle to let Theran know they were leaving, and the chick would come scampering. He was still too small and vulnerable to wander the world by himself for any length of time.

But he was now too big for it to be practical to carry him, and he had to bounce after the clones. Their pace was so slow that he ran excited rings about them, often squawking at them as though urging them to hurry, and scaring game for miles. More than once, Volk threatened to shoot the creature through the head, but it was clear he didn't mean it, largely because Theran did serve a useful purpose.

He had an uncanny ability to find water. The jungle was damp, but finding actual water sources could be difficult. Caden taught Theran to "bark" when he found water. The chick preferred the treated water the clones carried, probably because that was what he'd drunk from the time he hatched, and would wait, thirsty and panting, to get a drink of it rather than lap from a pool.

Theran also found some other things in water. Little fish and amphibians. He caught them in droves, sometimes to eat, but often just for fun. Caden taught him to retrieve, bringing his catch from the water. The fish were too fast for the clones to catch in a reasonable length of time or with a sane amount of effort, but Theran was fast and agile, with a lightning fast beak. His catches were meager snacks, but the clones weren't about to turn down what was essentially free food.

Theran was a tireless nuisance, always underfoot, dashing in and out of cover so that he was often briefly mistaken for a threat, gleefully dancing on Garm's invisible line and driving the guardian to the edge of sanity with his arrogant hisses and mock-charges, leaping from nowhere to land on Caden's back and hitting with enough force to almost knock his adoptive parent down, snatching bites from kills (he also had a nasty habit of swiping anything not firmly tied to a clone's person, and never bringing those items back unless he was chased down), and just generally being a juvenile delinquent.

For all that, he had become an honorary member of _Fortune Actual_ , and not one of the clones would dream of hurting a single brown feather on his fuzzy head.

And then he proved himself more valuable than ever.

Nearly a week of marching had brought them no sign of being closer to their goal. The trees pressed in on all sides, though the clones had by now adjusted and were no longer upset. They knew the sights and sounds of the jungle, had learned well the appearance and disposition of every creature commonly found there. They could pick their way over the rocky parts without stumbling, and navigate thick undergrowth without raising the ire of the poisonous animals therein.

They were built to survive, to be versatile and adapt. Their main advantage over the Separatist droids was their ability to cope with new and unexpected situations. They learned rapidly, on the fly as they always had. Their whole lives were a rushed blur in comparison with "normal" people, there was no choice but to pick up new information quickly. The other option was death.

Not having time to examine first made clones seem reckless or even stupid. They saw something new, but often failed to stop and think it through before advancing. Get the job done, and be quick now or you fail. That was the code they had lived by all their lives.

When Caden saw the trees abruptly fall away, he did not think to be suspicious. He paused to check for enemies, waited for Onoff to get close enough to signal, and then started forward. A distant ridge was his objective. The land ahead was flat, clear, no cover and with only the lowest scrub grass. It was muddy and uneven, but the footing didn't look too bad. It was just being in the open that really bothered him. But Theran knew instinctively what Caden did not see.

With a screech of alarm, Theran broke from the trees and dashed into Caden's path. Caden moved to step around him, thinking the chick was just being a pain in the ass as usual. With another screech, Theran leaped to block Caden's new course. He screeched an alarm call, bobbing his head vehemently and raising his forelimbs to show the claws, as though trying to intimidate Caden back.

"Bloody nuisance," Caden growled, and nudged the chick in the ribs with his boot.

Theran stumbled back, then hopped up and down angrily. Caden stepped over him. With a squeak, Theran dashed around and was once again in Caden's path, wildly flapping his good wing and screeching furiously, head bobbing urgently.

Caden kept walking, forcing Theran to step back. And again. Again. And then Theran's leg sank into the ground. With a panicked yelp, Theran began to thrash wildly, trying to pull himself free. Caden knelt at once and pulled the chick from the treacherous mire. And then he stared.

This flat place... it was a bog. Water snaked visibly through the grass, here the ground was solid, there it wasn't, and you couldn't tell which was which for sure without experience or a guide. And, if not for Theran, Caden would have stepped right into it and drowned before anyone knew what happened to him.

"Good boy," Caden said, trying to keep the shaking from his voice, "Good Theran."

He rose and backed away. When the others caught up, he explained to them what lay ahead. The moment he did, Tavis let out a sickly moan and his good leg gave out under him. Volk eased him down as best he could, startled by the sudden shaking that overtook the Corporal.

"I can't, I can't," Tavis breathed quietly, not to anyone in particular, "I can't do it. I can't. I can't."

"Don't be ridiculous," Volk growled back, "What you can't do is give up. Not now we've come so far."

"You don't understand. I can't. I can't do it. I just can't," He shook his head miserably, but was trembling so badly it was difficult to tell, "Water's bad enough, even if I can see it. But you can't see it in a bog. I can't do it. I cannot cross that. You'll have to go without me."

"You can, and you _will_ ," Volk insisted.

"Volk, I hate to interrupt," Caden said in a tone which conveyed the opposite, "But... I'm afraid the Corporal may be right on this one. I'm not even sure any of us can cross it, let alone Tavis. He starts to sink and he won't be able to pull himself out. And it's strong stuff. I had enough trouble pulling Theran free of it. We try to pull Tavis out if he gets mired in deep, and we might drown with him."

Volk didn't rise to the challenge in Caden's tone. When he spoke, his voice was low, a tone more of acceptance than defeat, but it was a sort of loss in itself because of the message it held.

"We don't have a choice."


	24. Why and How

For the moment, the clones were stopped. It was late in the afternoon, and Tavis wasn't about to discuss anything sensible like crossing a moor, or bog or whatever the proper term for land that looked solid but had treacherous pits of quicksand hidden beneath its surface was.

Volk decided they'd gone far enough for one day. But he wasn't wrong, in the end they didn't have a choice. The bog might continue forever, for all he knew, but he suspected that it came to an end over that ridge, less than three miles distant, that the other side would show plains like the ones they'd crossed to get here. However, that was distance across. To find a way around might prove impossible, the bog seemed to stretch away to forever along the edge of the jungle (and maybe it did). There wasn't time to find a way around, if indeed such a course existed. Not if they wanted Tavis to be with them on the other side.

"Sometimes I think we're mailmen instead of soldiers," Doc commented.

"Nice fantasy," Damyu replied.

"No, I mean it. We're meant to be dropped into a battle, or near one anyway. That's why pilots have to be so damn good at their jobs. They have to make it through enemy fire and drop us in the middle, while there are still some of us alive to get the job done. And then they have to swing back and pull us out, even if there's still a fight goin'. This 'neither rain nor sleet nor snow or bog' shit isn't our line."

"You seem to forget," Garm said evenly, "We're the ones nobody wants. We ain't got a line."

Volk didn't weigh in on the conversation, instead he walked over to Tavis, who was just out of earshot of the others if one talked in a quiet voice, which Volk now proceeded to do.

"What did you see?"

It was a question he'd never meant to ask. First because he wasn't interested, and later on because he figured Tavis would tell him when the notion struck or it became important. But Volk was suspecting more and more that there wasn't going to be a later. Not for Tavis, anyway.

Tavis didn't have to ask what Volk was referring to. But he didn't answer immediately, so Volk pressed him.

"You were in deep when the first explosion hit. It took you so long to make your way out that even Mother thought you weren't coming. You and Phisher both."

Tavis looked over at the mists dancing across the bog, and didn't say anything.

"You saw something. Something happened. And it's been eating at you ever since," Volk wondered how true those words were after he spoke them; until just that moment he hadn't brought into coherency the notion Doc had implanted when he told Volk that Tavis was sick and had been since the attack.

"You know why we're here?" Tavis asked finally, in a resigned but distant voice.

"Don't get metaphysical on me, leave that stuff for the Jedi," Volk growled.

"I'm not. I'm not even sure what that word means," Tavis retorted coldly, "I mean why we were put together as a squad, sent here to Onithera. Why our sergeant, the one before Mother, died from injuries that should not have been fatal on the way here."

Volk bristled. He had thought about it, much as he'd told himself not to, and repeatedly informed himself that it didn't matter anyway, and that he didn't know enough to make any kind of judgment anyhow. What he did know was that this was a career-ending assignment. He hadn't really expected to see action ever again, and that had really hit him where he lived.

"What are you saying?" Volk asked.

"I'm saying Sergeant Weller didn't die. Those training accidents, the drills in the night where somebody wouldn't come back... they weren't accidents. Those men didn't die."

"Reassigned?" Volk suggested without hope.

"If you'd like to call it that. I wouldn't. You want to know what I saw? You really want to know? I saw my brothers strapped to tables, plugged into machinery I don't even want to guess the purpose of, being used as lab rats. By the people we were told to protect, and defer to."

"What for?" Volk wanted to know.

"Damned if I know," Tavis shrugged, "But it sure looked to me like they were trying to find ways to kill. To kill _us_."

"Biological warfare? The Republic's got more sense than that. You'd never win against a droid army with that," Volk shook his head, "And you'd be hard pressed to do damage to those evil Jedi too."

"I don't think that's the technical term," Tavis remarked dryly.

"Screw the technical term," Volk snapped, "and the Jedi too."

"It wasn't them," Tavis said, "They knew nothing of this. Well... almost nothing."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because they sent a spy. I don't know how they got him in, but he passes well enough for one of us so long as he keeps his helmet on," Tavis answered.

Volk twitched, a realization rippling through him. He knew of only one clone who never removed his helmet. He'd always thought Phisher was just eccentric. Now he knew.

"And you knew. How long have you known?" Volk asked.

"Since the day he arrived and was assigned to my fireteam. I knew something was off. He didn't move right, didn't talk right, didn't... anything right. I'm not sure he knew the safe end of a blaster from the firing end. He didn't want to talk, but I threatened to break his neck. He wasn't one of us, and must be a spy, and I made sure he knew how I felt about those."

"Then what? He explained and that made it all better?"

"Not exactly," Tavis replied, "He showed me the paperwork. And contacted the Jedi who'd sent him. And I got my orders. Cooperate, keep my mouth shut."

Volk didn't argue. Not that he wasn't miffed about being kept out of the loop, but he knew why. A clone follows his orders, it was only recently that they'd started behaving otherwise. And you never argued with a Jedi if you knew what was good for you. Not only because of rank, but because it was simply a stupid idea. Any soldier knows power when he sees it. Jedi didn't have to flaunt it for clones to get the message. It was in every move, every word. The Jedi were nothing to mess with, no matter how brave you might think you were, even if you disregarded training.

"So he told you, and then what?" Volk asked.

"He didn't tell me everything. Not at first. He didn't want me involved. But, the longer we stayed, the more he realized his cover was inadequate. I could get into places he couldn't, not only because of rank but also disposition. I knew how to be a clone, he didn't. Maybe if that attack hadn't happened, I'd be down there with the others. I don't know. Actually, I don't remember anything after sneaking into an empty hallway and looking into one of the rooms in the restricted area. After that... just bits and pieces. I remember smoke, I remember fire, I remember screaming. What little I do remember I've had to put together from scraps of memory over time."

The people they were meant to trust, and to protect... Volk had trouble equating those with what Tavis had said. Experimenting on clones? But what for? Why? It certainly explained why losers were sent here, nobody would miss them if they disappeared. But what possible reason...

Volk shook his head. It didn't matter.

"I do remember this: there wasn't anybody inside. Besides clones, I mean. Like... like maybe they knew it was going to happen, knew we were going to be bombed and got themselves out."

"You think they planned it? They did a shitty job of it if they did. Right in the middle of a drill. Half the clones on the base were outdoors. If they planned it right, we'd have all been inside except the night guards. If they planned it right, we wouldn't even still be here."

"I don't think it was a plan. I think they knew, but I don't think it was them that burned the place."

Volk blew through his teeth, and looked out at the bog, which Tavis had been staring at the whole time.

"You know what really gets me?" Tavis asked, but didn't wait for an answer, "It's that... they could have told us. They could have said 'now we're going to experiment on you for the good of the Republic'. And we'd have taken it without even balking once. They could even have ordered us not to speak of it, or to say a lie if anyone asked, and we'd have done it. We'd have stood there and watched our brothers suffer and die around us, and not thought a thing of it. We're only clones, we do what we're told. That's the program, that's the Law for us."

He swallowed and Volk thought he was done, but he wasn't and soon found his voice again.

"There's only one reason they kept it secret. They _knew_ it was wrong. They expected us to protest or ask questions because that's what they themselves would have done in our place. It doesn't make sense, but we wouldn't have wondered. Not one of us. How many of our kind are murdered for no reason, no reason at all, other than because somebody can? How many places like this exist?"

"You're not sick because of that," Volk said thoughtfully, "You're sick because of something they made down there. Something you breathed or got on you or something."

"Who told you I was sick?" Tavis asked, sounding surprised.

"Doc. Nobody else knew the difference."

"You did," Tavis replied, "You knew I was the weak link from the start."

"No, I thought that, but it wasn't true. It's come to my attention that you're the strongest of us. Hell, maybe the best of us, I don't know. But that only means that you have to keep being strong, not that things are any easier. We need you. So... tomorrow, you and I are crossing that bog... together."

"I don't understand you," Tavis said, though his voice was becoming more distant than ever, and Volk wasn't sure if Tavis had misheard him until he went on, "One minute you want to kill, the next you want to save. Maybe... it would have been better... if you had."

Volk sat still while Tavis drifted the rest of the way into uneasy sleep. Tavis had known Volk's intention during the flash flood? How could he have known that? And... why wasn't he angry about it?

"I don't understand you, either," Volk said, but Tavis was asleep and didn't hear.

Volk sighed, and took some time to absorb what he'd been told. He had the uneasy feeling that Tavis knew who had attacked them, and maybe even why. But he was convinced that Tavis didn't remember. Volk didn't know a great deal about memory loss, but a blow to the head would do it... and so could a shock if he recalled correctly. It would've had to be a pretty massive shock.

His thoughts were swiftly drawn in a new direction as, looking at the edge of the bog, he spotted Theran hopping about in the mud, snatching bugs from just above the surface with lightning quick reflexes. But it was the 'dance' that intrigued Volk. The little chick knew just how to place his feet, and never once stepped into a patch that got him stuck.

Now, someone raised to a bog might navigate it safely, perhaps even easily. And someone with a guide can do it well enough. But these clones had never seen anything like a bog, only heard of them. The chances of them getting across without getting stuck were very low. Even walking single file, following exactly in each other's steps, there was a good chance whoever was in the lead would misstep, and sink deep before anyone could stop him. And that goo was thick enough that pulling him out would be no easy matter either. But the chick could do it.

Perhaps it was born with a knowledge of bog in its genetic memory. Perhaps it simply had the eyes to see. Volk didn't know, and didn't care. All he wanted to do was harness it.

He had not forgotten about what Tavis said, it simply wasn't important at this time. He put it on the back burner and threw himself wholly into accomplishing his goal. And that meant doing something exceedingly difficult, well nigh impossible. He had to get Caden to cooperate with him.

Volk rose, looked around, spotted Caden sitting near where Theran was playing, and loped over to him.

"What?" Caden spat the question, sounding offended that Volk had come near him.

"Can that," Volk replied coolly, "And answer this: can you get that little beast to go where you tell it?"

Caden looked up at him, or else past him. He seemed to be thinking about making a smart remark, but then he just sighed, shrugged and looked over at the chick, who had caught himself a juicy water bug and was enthusiastically (and rather disgustingly, since he had no lips with which to conceal the operation) crunching up the morsel.

"If you can," Volk persisted, undaunted by Caden's disinterest in the subject, "Then there may be a way for us to get across. And nobody has to drown for us to do it."

Caden looked up sharply, and then back at the chick. You didn't need to see his face to know a speculative look was going across it. So he did still listen when Volk talked. That was something anyway.

"I can get him to come. And to retrieve. And stay. But going away to a specified point... that's something else again. I haven't tried it, so I don't know," Caden admitted.

"Well, you have the rest of the day to train that creature to make himself useful. And know this: even if you fail, we still cross tomorrow morning. I'd rather you succeed," Volk walked away before Caden could decide whether or not to be sarcastic.


	25. Knowing

"I'm telling you, I can _not_ cross that."

Volk had hoped that a night's sleep would render Tavis more cooperative. But he was still adamant. The very idea of crossing over water he couldn't even see gave him the shakes. Ask him to fight, ask him to die, ask him to get up and limp painfully through an accursed jungle for a week- fine. But this... this was too much to ask of him. This was just unreasonable.

Volk had tried the fierce tactic, the demanding and authoritative one, and Tavis had not budged. Now it was time for something completely foreign to him.

"It'll be just fine," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, "Caden's got a theory that Theran can detect whether a piece of ground is safe or not. All we need to do is follow him, do what he does."

" _Theran_ ," Tavis said icily, "weighs eight pounds, if that much. Now, maybe he knows what's safe for him to land on, but how's he to know whether or not it's safe for us?"

"Well look who's become negative all of a sudden!" Volk knew he'd blown the empathy angle and was now moving on into antagonistic, "You're the one that had us cross a river in the dead of night while being chased by an Onitheran and with a lake monster beneath us to boot. You seemed pretty sure we could survive that. What's so much worse about this?"

"I could _see_ the river," Tavis replied.

"What's seeing got to do with it?" Volk snapped, "You knew the flood was coming without having to see it, and don't tell me otherwise. And, before that, you knew I was going to have a go at you before you saw me move. Don't tell me it was dumb luck, your reflexes aren't that fast. I'd wager you even knew Garm was still alive when all evidence said he wasn't."

"Now you're just making up theories. At any rate, it isn't true. Sometimes I get a feeling, but that's hardly the same as knowing something. So long as you can't see it or touch it, it might as well not be real. You can call it luck if you like, I certainly do."

"Well I don't like," Volk retorted hotly, feeling he was getting nowhere rather quickly, "And neither would you if you still had all your sense."

"If I know so damned much, why don't you trust me when I say I _can't_ do something?" Tavis had started to raise his voice, but caught himself before anyone looked over.

"Because I can hear the fear in your voice," Volk answered as gently as he'd ever said anything, "You aren't afraid when you know something. You're dead calm about it, no matter what it is. I've been paying attention, and I've learned that the only thing you're scared of is something unknown. Yesterday when you told me about the bombing, your voice didn't tremble until you told me you didn't remember the explosions. The horror show before that didn't bother you, not knowing did. There's fear in your voice, and it's because you can't see your way across that piece of land out there, but you also don't know for sure trying to cross it will kill you, or else you'd accept it and get on with things. You're not afraid to die, Tay. I know you're not. I'm not either. That's no boast, just an honest truth."

"What do you get out of my coming along, Volk?" Tavis asked wearily, "You and I both know what's ahead. We're on a fast trek to nowhere, at best a shelled out structure. I've known it from the start, and you've known since yesterday. So what's driving you?"

"First it was Mother," Volk said slowly, "And then it was you. Now... I don't know. Maybe it's hope."

"Hope for what?" Tavis asked, "We were abandoned, Volk. Nobody is coming to find us. And there's nobody waiting at the end of the line. We have no way off this planet, and there's no command post to answer to. Our own people are trying to kill us. Volk... our squad is _dying_. Not just Mother, or me. But the lot of us. We've got nowhere to go, and nobody to help us."

"We're surviving alright," Volk protested, but it was a weak one, he knew.

"No. We're not. We lost nearly everything we had, all the weapons we've got left besides mine were grabbed off dead bodies. Volk... there won't always _be_ dead bodies to scavenge off of. Our time is limited. Even if we took to using knives, we still wouldn't last. We have no purpose here. And no future. And there's nothing any of us can do about it."

Volk was silent. How did you respond to that statement? And why had it taken Tavis this long to give up, if this is what he really believed? And that's when the truth hit: Tavis didn't believe what he'd just said. There was something... something else. He still harbored hope somewhere. But where? What was it he was going towards? What was it that got him up every morning? What drove a guy like Tavis?

"Phisher," Volk said aloud, "we have Phisher."

Tavis looked at him, but said nothing. Suddenly it all made sense. They were going to the last place they'd heard a radio transmission, the one place that might have gotten a message out before being blown to smithereens. And they were counting on whoever sent Phisher here to come looking for him. Because Phisher wasn't a clone. That meant he was not expendable. Or _might_ not be.

"Get up," Volk snarled, "Or I swear I will punch you in the face, throw you over my shoulders and carry you like a dead animal. Your choice, but you _are_ going to cross that moor."

"Is that an order?" Tavis asked, sounding almost amused.

"I'd rather it not be. I've had my taste of command and can't wait to get my mouth washed out. But if I have to, I'll make it one. By force, if necessary."

"Well then," Tavis sighed, "sounds as if I am going across."

Volk wasn't an optimist. Not by any stretch of even the most active imagination. He simply did not have that in him. He was being guided by much the same principle as that which had guided the prey animals into the dry wash so long ago. They had known there was little water to be had, but came on the faith that maybe there was a mouthful left, a chance at survival. Volk had that same thread thin bit of hope, only his was pinned squarely on an outpost that might not exist any more than the water in dry wash had. It wasn't that he believed firmly in the existence of salvation, only that he had to believe in something or else simply give up and wait to die.

The compulsion to live was strong, even though Volk accepted that death would be his end eventually. The desire to exist for as long as he was able could overcome any logic or reason. That basic need to live, to be, was just as present in a clone's instincts as any of his others; it was his training, educating him that doing his duty above any fear of consequence to himself that overrode it. But Volk, as mentioned repeatedly, was driven more powerfully by his instincts than anything else.

And his instincts gave this order: Live.

Simple, direct, straight to the point. No need to elaborate or analyze, the order stood on its own, unaided by morality or rationale. It simply was, and there was no conflicting order here.

Because he did not think about it, it did not occur to him to recall that the thirsty herd of animals had made their journey in vain; even had Tavis not been waiting to kill them, there was no water there, their hope had not been rewarded, except by death.

"Alright," Volk said, "Let's get this show on the road."

By necessity, Caden took point. Onoff and Phisher followed in single file. Volk and Tavis were next, with Doc and then Damyu behind them, and Garm taking the rear as always.

Caden hadn't exactly successfully trained Theran, but he had developed a workaround. He used choice bits of meat from the ape-things, those being Theran's favorite. He would throw a scrap out ahead as far as he could, and tell Theran to go get it, and the watch closely as the chick navigated his way to the food. He would follow as precisely as he was able (Theran often leaped from one small solid space to another, and you couldn't tell until you got there whether it was safe or not), and the others would mimic him. They almost immediately sank to their knees in the marshy ground.

The only sign of distress Tavis gave was that his shaking got immeasurably worse, to the point that the others could have seen it if they'd been looking at him instead of keeping their eyes firmly on the ground (or lack thereof) in front of them. Volk tried to ignore it, then to pretend the tremors were caused by pain rather than terror. It didn't do much good, but he said nothing and neither did Tavis.

It also became apparent just how much Tavis really weighed. Volk hadn't realized just how much Tavis had been carrying his own weight. Now Tavis leaned on him more heavily than ever, and his boots sank deep in the mud. It took heroic amounts of effort just to pull free and take a step, then still more to move his other foot (which sank deeper as he was yanking the first one free), and then pulling Tavis along (he was almost like dead weight; worse actually, on account of the shaking).

Volk began to feel uneasy himself, but for an entirely different reason. He was out in the open, without a scrap of cover in sprinting distance (even if he could have sprinted across this ground), and he couldn't even draw his weapon without ceasing all forward progress and dropping Tavis to do it.

Clones, ever ready to charge into battle and face any danger they are asked to, still prefer to take cover when that's possible. The common philosophy among them is this: the more clankers you take with you when you go, the better. Nobody was taking any clankers anywhere out here in the bog, least of all Volk. Every savage instinct urged him to drop his burden, and to flee from this open place.

But he didn't.

For what it was worth, he wasn't the only one resisting the urge to leave the others behind. Caden, up at the front, had to wait for the others to catch up before sending Theran out ahead again, to make sure they followed his movements exactly so they wouldn't sink. He had to stand still, fidgeting from foot to foot, trying not to get too stuck to pull himself loose while waiting for the others to catch up. Volk and Tavis traveled at a snail's pace, agonizing for them and maddening for Caden.

The most uncomfortable thing about the whole affair was that you had to keep your eyes down, or else you might miss your step or find yourself sinking because you stayed too long in one place. That meant there wasn't much opportunity to look ahead, around or behind for danger. Even Garm was failing to do his usual duty as rearguard. They were like flies on an empty dinner plate. Just as exposed, and just as out of place as well.

And then a misstep. A piece of ground that had survived being tramped on by the first few clones decided to give under Volk. Suddenly, his right leg went out from under him and he found himself floundering, forced to let go of Tavis to avoid getting them both stuck.

Sunk to his waist, Volk didn't panic, even though everything inside him cried out that he was about to die and was in more trouble than he could even imagine. Something slithered against his leg, and he was suddenly aware of the life beneath the surface. Animals were down there, and this one wrapped what felt like a tentacle (but could just as easily have been a tongue) around his leg and pulled.

He hadn't counted on that. Quicksand was one thing, beasts trying to drag you down was another. Still, he didn't lose it, though the muddy water rapidly came past his waist. He simply floundered in the calmest way someone can do such a thing, dragging himself towards relatively solid ground.

Tavis, meanwhile, fell over, and promptly screamed. But it wasn't fear that did it, nor even landing on his wounded leg. The scream didn't happen at impact, it happened when the water touched the wound and made it feel like it had been set on fire. Tavis soon quit screaming, but twitched about in the muddy, sludgy water that reached halfway across his chest when he was laying on his side (it was a shallow part, only about calf deep), and was not only no help to anybody, but no assistance to himself either. He just lay there, trying to hold in pitiful moans and force his scattered thoughts to organize themselves, but fresh flashes of pain foiled his every attempt.

Tavis' outcry drew the attention of the clones ahead, and the ones behind had seen what happened. Doc seemed to forget the unsure footing and made a straight line for Tavis, while Garm hopped past Damyu and had waded over to Volk by the time the rookie snapped to.

It was a confusing few minutes. Everybody got stuck and unstuck several times over, fell down, scrambled up, crawled on hands and knees in an attempt to feel out the ground before putting weight on it. The tentacle released Volk's leg in favor of Caden's arm at one point, whereupon Theran unleashed a baby warrior shriek and leaped upon it, clawing and tearing with feet and beak at the offending appendage until it shrank away and disappeared back into the water.

But, eventually, they were back up and moving on. Because of the uncertainty of their footing, they did not stop to assess injury. Caden sent Theran out, but the chick was reluctant to continue on. He'd been badly frightened by the tentacle monster and was concerned about leaving Caden's side now.

"Looks like we do this the old fashioned way," Caden muttered.

He pulled a line from a small pack on his belt, and clipped the end to his armor. He passed the line back to the clone behind him, who pulled it through a loop at his own belt and then passed it back. And so on, until they were all tied to one another. This time if someone fell in, pulling him out wouldn't be such a chore and maybe they wouldn't all wind up drowning.

Volk felt a twinge of frustration. _He_ should have thought of that earlier. Safety lines were a part of his training of course, but he'd forgotten them. He'd been doing without so much for so long that he barely remembered what he did have besides his own body and blaster.

Careful as he was, Caden repeatedly got stuck and had to be pulled free so he could start again. But he never complained nor retired from his place on point, even though it would have been perfectly fair for him to rotate out now that Theran was busy being useless again. But it had become a point of honor for him in the last half hour of struggling. He'd taken the lead, and there he intended to stay until he finished the job or Volk pulled him off it.

And they did make it across. But there was no time for celebration. Just as they reached the reasonably firm ground of the ridge they'd set their sights on, an airship came barreling towards them as though from nowhere. It was actually that none of them had looked up for awhile, and their first warning was the sound of the thing's engines as it bore down on them.

"It's one of ours," Damyu noted.

And then it headed for them, nose down. A line of dirt shot into the air, tracing towards where the squad was standing. They were being shot at by a Republic airship!

"Hit the dirt!" Volk yelled, giving Tavis a shove and toppling him off the ridge.

The others went after him, taking no time to be graceful in their tumble. There was no cover up on that ridge, they had to get off, and try not to be shot doing it. Their only chance was that there was a series of rock formations on the other side. If they could get there in one piece, they might yet survive.

Though, Volk wondered, to what end? It was one thing for troopers on the ground to get a case of madness and go around shooting their own brothers, but this was an airship. That hadn't come from the ground, but from somewhere else. Which begged the question: why was the GAR trying to kill them?


	26. Bean

Private First Class Bean ("Beanie" to the handful of people who could get away with it) very nearly had a short career (and this by clone standards), no pun intended. Bean got his name for being, as one instructor put it "a tiny little sprout". Simply put, he was a full inch shorter than all the rest of his brothers, and ten pounds lighter in spite of what he tried to do about it.

It might not seem like much, but it was. The size of trooper armor was calculated exactly, since they were all meant to be alike it was possible to be more specific than you could hope to be with any other brand of soldier. They were expected -required- to carry a certain amount of weight in gear, and the absence of ten pounds body weight made it well nigh impossible. Clone soldiers were already pushed to their limits in training, and Bean simply couldn't keep up.

Not that he didn't try. Bean was just like any one of his brothers in the department of trying. He'd do his best every time, push until he broke (or until ordered to stop), pour his all, body and soul, into any work put before him. Unlike a few of his kind, he didn't believe in menial tasks. All work was equal to his mind, orders said do, that's what you did. He never had to learn the hard way that you follow orders no matter how absurd they seem to you at the time. Instructor said "jump off this platform without first checking what's down there", that's exactly what Bean would do; with neither thought nor hesitation put into the mix. But while the heart was willing, the body was not able.

Bean's bunkmates tormented him mercilessly about his size (as though he had any control over how tall he got), and routinely harassed him during drills (often getting so involved in it that they forgot to do what they'd been told). It wasn't that they were of evil intent, just that they were a bunch of children. Children, especially in groups, are cruel, and they lack awareness of others, which is why they feel no guilt about pulling the wings off of flies and watching them squirm until they die. Bean was the little one, the weak one, the odd one. He was a natural focus point for all the antagonism his bunkmates saved up after being hounded by their elders all day.

And then they reached a new point in their training. Their natural aggression was brought to surface, and combined with training that made them dangerous, but they hadn't yet learned control. They were, in essence, wild animals locked in a cage, unable to reach what they had come to think of as their tormentors. Nobody was later quite sure what sparked it off, but it didn't matter.

One minute they were sitting around, polishing boots, the next a squad's worth of cadets went after Bean. He didn't ask them to stop, didn't curl up to protect himself and wait for rescue. He did exactly what he had been trained to do. He fought back. In fact, Bean was the one to escalate things.

There might have only been bruises resulting from it, but Bean hit one of the cadets attacking him right in the nose with his elbow. There was a crack, and the impact also knocked the cadet backwards. If he'd hit a wall, he might have been alright. But he hit the base of his skull against the edge of a bunk frame and it knocked him cold. He was subsequently rather badly trampled by his own buddies who, in their eagerness for blood, failed to notice him.

Bean's response to the attack brought out more than the casual combativeness that had come to surface in training. He'd drawn blood, aimed to maim or maybe even kill. And that brought things to a whole other level. Clones have little innate sense of fair play, and it is seldom a part of their basic education.

The point of battle is to win, whether the numbers are in your favor or not. Sometimes the enemy will outnumber you, sometimes the other way around. It doesn't matter. The idea of fair play did not come from the book of warfare, because it makes no sense from a survival or victory standpoint, and there's little point in making war if you don't intend to come out on top. You might as well just stay home.

Likewise, nobody had ever told Bean that biting was unsportsmanlike. Sportsmanship is for friendly duels, not struggles of life and death, which is what this had just become, though that's not at all how it had started out (or so the cadets, including Bean, would later assert). Anyway, nobody complained when, with his arms pinned behind him, Bean twisted around and sank his teeth into an arm around his throat. Well, nobody but the one who got bit, and that was only to yell and pummel Bean with his free arm until he agreed to let go.

The noise of the whole affair was what saved Bean's life. He'd finally been knocked down and probably would have been kicked to death had not a furious instructor come down upon the cadets like a lightning bolt, throwing them aside like rag dolls. Bean was so disoriented that he took a swing at his rescuer without even realizing who he was about to strike (typically an inexcusable offense, but Bean missed and it was obvious he hadn't known who he was hitting anyway).

The subject of what to do with Bean was already a sore one, and this only made it worse. There had been some hope that he could graduate and either survive through sheer luck or else become cannon fodder and save some other shiny from buying the farm. But now it was apparent that he might not live so long, even if he avoided buying it in a training accident. Not only that, but he was bringing the whole barracks down.

You couldn't very well graduate clones who had killed one of their own. In fact, at this stage, it was the instructors' biggest task to keep just that from happening. Their job was to run the cadets so ragged that they couldn't even _think_ of slugging one another, and to make them so despise their instructors that they could mesh with one another in having a common enemy (while at the same time keeping that enemy untouchable). The danger of this whole batch not making it had suddenly become very apparent.

Something had to be done about Bean. But what?

Getting rid of a clone was no small affair, unless he'd committed some offense for which he could be executed, and Bean hadn't done anything like that. In fact, he was everything that was needed in a good soldier... except that the package in which it came was too damned small. Still, it would be a waste not to put him somewhere. He had too much brains, had gained too much in the way of skill, had too much heart... the war needed more like him... only taller.

In the end, some genius realized that they could put him in a place where size didn't matter quite so much. They made him a pilot of an airship. He had the reflexes to make those hulking behemoths do just about anything he wanted. The risk of getting shot down was extremely high, and pilots were in high demand because they were harder to come by than regular ground troops. You couldn't breed for them, just had to test and see if one clone out of a hundred had what it took.

Bean had taken that test and been passed over. It had been the opinion of the man running the test that it would take higher than average intelligence and more than a little determination to make up for what Bean lacked in innate skills. But training had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bean would throw everything he had into whatever was asked of him. And so, he was put on a new training course, which was of necessity a bit rushed because he ought to have already been halfway through it.

And that missing inch gave him Hell there too. Where it put him in the pilot's seat, he had a larger blind spot than most, and it took him a fraction of a second longer to switch from one control to another in an emergency situation. In a less refined, less specialized military, it would have gone unnoticed, even though those fractions were the difference between living and dying for a whole lot of soldiers. In a military where everyone wasn't supposed to meet exactly the same standards, beggars couldn't be choosers. In this military, you could afford to be choosy, at least about some things.

But Bean worked hard, practicing even in those slim windows of rest period between training, meals and sleeping. Maybe every clone had the potential in them, but Bean had the willpower to exercise that to its fullest. And he made the grade, much the chagrin of his new bunkmates, who'd been convinced he'd never qualify, much less be able to match them.

The truth was, if Bean had started his training at the same time as the others, he could have bested the lot of them. And everybody knew it. That he was last in his class meant nothing, except that he hadn't been given the time and effort of instructors that he needed to succeed properly.

Having proven himself worthwhile, Bean didn't take anything off anybody. He'd tolerated the teasing, name calling and shoving around before because he hadn't shown that he was worth respecting. Having won his victory, however small, Bean demanded that he be respected like anybody else.

In a "friendly" fight, he was a little fireball, and it never mattered whether he won or lost, only that he held his own. Because of his limitations and overwhelming need to strive for perfection, Bean soon proved to be the ideal airship pilot. If asked (and they seldom were), troopers would say they'd rather have PFC Bean than anybody. He'd never jolt you off your feet when he banked, wouldn't drop you directly on top of a tank, and sure as Hell wouldn't take off without getting the word from a platoon leader that everybody was on board, no matter how hot things got.

He didn't deserve Onithera. And hadn't been posted there. Not until word was sent that the planet had been taken over by Separatists allied with deserters. The ship on which he served had been the closest. Because it would cause confusion, no ground troops were deployed, but Bean's little airship went down with about twenty others to shoot the Hell out of the buildings and anyone they found down there.

And that included clones. Bean didn't like it, but he didn't have to. He'd never bucked an order and had absolutely no intention whatsoever of starting then. Besides, he didn't have to shoot, just fly so the gunner could get the job done. It make him equally responsible, but at least he didn't have to pull the trigger.

It had felt more like a raid than anything. Go down at night, shoot everything that moved, duck and dodge and keep going, don't stop or else you'll get shot down. He'd thought it was confusion that had saved him that night. The enemy was caught unaware with his helmet off.

The airships had been designated to hang around and keep an eye out for any survivors, who were to be gunned down with extreme prejudice. Of the original twenty, only ten were still there, sent out in rotations of five at a time. The others had better things to do, and had probably been overkill to begin with.

This particular morning was the first time in two weeks that Bean had spotted any activity on the ground (wildlife didn't count for anything in this context). Eager as a hound after a rabbit, he swung so that his gunner could get a bead on the targets and start shooting.

Then something started bothering him. These clones weren't shooting back. They had weapons, and Bean was flying low enough, but all they did was take cover. That was not the behavior of deserters. That was the behavior of clones who happened to be in the way of a strafing run.

"Gunner," Bean never referred to a gunner by name, "Gunner, cease fire."

"I have targets," the gunner replied.

"I said: cease fire!" Bean spat back.

"You got no rank on me, little bit," the gunner retorted.

Technically true. A pilot should outrank a gunner, but Bean was just a PFC, his gunner outranked him. Except that the pilot was supposed to be in charge. Even if a commander was present, the pilot had command so long as they were on his airship. The only ones that didn't apply to were Jedi.

But this gunner was newly promoted, and full of his own sauce. Bean wasn't about to take that.

He gave the controls a sound jerk, and performed a swinging turn he'd never have done with men aboard (they'd have fallen out the side or, with shields down, broken their necks), swinging so that the ship itself blocked the gunner's targets. They swept low over the ridge, actually clipped it a little which gave them a bit of a bounce, but did no real harm.

"I tell you cease, and you do it!" Bean snarled into his headset, "Are we clear?"

The gunner grumbled something. Bean decided to have it out with him later.

"We're supposed to take out any targets," the gunner fumed.

"I'm not shooting anybody who isn't a threat without direct orders."

"It don't get more direct than 'shoot anything alive'," the gunner said.

"I want clarification on that. I'm not coming down again until the boss-man tells me in no uncertain terms that there are _no_ friendlies down there. I don't like killing our own. But before you start thinking about reporting me for insubordination, know that I will if I have to. They're not goin' anywhere. They'll still be planet side when we get back."

* * *

Bean would never know how close he'd come to buying it. When the clones got into cover, Tavis had slung his rifle off his shoulder and been preparing to take aim. Bean had miscalculated. The clones on the ground hadn't fired because they knew it wouldn't do them any good to shoot at an airship and they weren't about to waste their time doing it.

But when it swung low after them, Tavis knew he'd have a shot at the pilot. Shoot the pilot, the ship goes down. Simple as that. But then the shot was ruined as the airship catapulted and swung to the side, and then decided to go away for reasons none of those on the ground were aware of.

"Just as well," Tavis muttered, "I'd have missed anyway."

He was shaking so badly that Doc had quite a time getting the armor off his leg to look at the wound, which had bled quite a bit as a result of this part of the expedition.

But it wasn't all bad news.

"Well, I'll be damned," Doc breathed, "we better take a closer look at that water you fell in. I think it's killing off the infection. And the infection didn't like it much. That's what hurt so much."

"We may live through this after all," Volk said.

"Don't count your Onitherans before they hatch," Tavis replied, "It's not over yet."


	27. Backlash

"What the Hell is the matter with you, soldier!? Haven't you got any brains in your skull at all!? You can't just go around ignoring or putting off orders whenever it suits you! It's not up to you whether something needs to be done right this instant or not! And if you were unclear on your orders, you should have said so at the start, not waited weeks! Do you have any idea how many lives you've endangered because of some idiotic sense of morality or justice or whatever-the-hell you've come down with!?" the sergeant was pissed.

Because he was not placed at attention, Bean stood with eyes half closed and head bowed, silent in face of the angry tirade. Not since basic had anyone come down on him like this. He did not argue, made no attempt to defend himself. If the sergeant wanted a defense, he'd ask for it, until then it was safer for Bean to stand and say nothing, else he'd condemn himself of talking back to a sergeant if nothing else.

The humiliation was a public one, every pilot and gunner was present, both those just coming off duty and those rotating on. There wasn't any sniggering among them, they were a grimly silent bunch, deeply wounded by Bean's offense because they were just as responsible for it being as he was one of them. He'd refused orders in the face of the enemy, and for that there could be no defense.

The sergeant continued, including epithets where he deemed them appropriate, coming to conclusions about whoever let such a sorry excuse for a soldier graduate and making insinuations about the intelligence of whoever it was that educated him, going back to whoever was in charge of the tube where such a moronic creation had been grown. He was restricted to these things only because to question Bean's hereditary would be to question his own as well. And then he did that too, and wondered if maybe the whole platoon ought to be shot for this offense.

And then he stopped, panting as he never did during even the most strenuous drill. He'd exhausted his supply of expletives, metaphors and insults, as well as his breath.

"Why?" he then asked.

Bean knew that it wasn't a necessary question. There was no right answer. The sergeant asked only because Bean had served so long and so well, had never given anybody above him the slightest bit of trouble that could be avoided, exceeded the expectations that had been placed on him (unreasonable as they had been), and... well... the sergeant happened to like him.

The trouble was that Bean didn't know exactly. The closest he could come to putting it into words was wholly inadequate and would earn him more of a tongue lashing than he'd already received. And he'd deserve it too, if that had really been the reason. Well, he had to answer, and he only had one.

"It didn't feel right, sir," Bean replied.

When he spoke, he did not hang his head, and looked his sergeant right in the eye. He was not ashamed of what he'd done, and didn't believe he was in the wrong. But he knew, by GAR law (which, for him, was the _only_ law), he was guilty of several things. He hadn't ended his career, he'd ended his life. And for what? Eight clones he didn't even know, who were in all likelihood deserters.

"'Didn't feel right'?!" the sergeant looked like he was going to turn purple, "Just what in blazes have _feelings_ got to do with anything!? Feelings aren't for you, not for me either. We lost the right to feel when we graduated! A soldier isn't meant to feel about his orders, his meant to carry them out! Anybody who says differently is a blithering idiot or a liar!"

Bean didn't break eye contact until the sergeant turned to continue pacing, then he bowed his head again. The Sergeant was right, of course. He was always right. To a PFC like Bean, The Sergeant was God, his word was Law. You didn't talk to anybody higher up if you were a PFC, not if you could avoid it. You knew that you were dead if a lieutenant addressed you directly.

The Sergeant had a name, but nobody under him called him by it. Names were for sergeants you didn't belong to, because they might be _a_ God, but they certainly weren't yours and you had relatively little to fear from them. Only The Sergeant could bash you about however he saw fit. Any other sergeant laid hands on you and yours would lay him out flat and fit him for a cast. It was a good thing most sergeants had more discipline than a PFC, or else a lot of clones would be cut to pieces before they ever saw a battle. Sergeants yelled at you. If they ever touched you, it was basically the end of the world. But a tongue lashing was worse.

Clones were meant to take abuse, it was their daily lot. But it was largely of a physical nature. And, though their ultimate loyalty was to the Republic, that was too vast and distant an entity to cope with. The approval of The Sergeant was everything. It was the _only_ thing.

Bean would rather have taken a beating than listen to The Sergeant think up some new insults just for him and this second bout of screaming. The Sergeant didn't yell often, he wasn't that kind. If he was yelling at you, you could be damned sure it wasn't just for the Hell of it.

"-and I suppose you think floor soap is better 'n drinking water too!" Bean had missed several lines of it by now, too weighed down trying to reconcile his guilt with the insistence of something inside that he'd done right when it was clear he'd done wrong.

"No, sir," Bean said quietly when The Sergeant paused for breath, "I don't, sir."

"Then what _ever_ possessed you to think that _feelings_ had any place in a combat situation!? 'Oh, I've got a fuzzy feeling in my tummy, let's all roll over and let the clankers use us as a floor rug!' For heaven's sake, Lad, what in the world is the matter with you!?" he'd repeated himself, that was a bad sign.

Worse, he'd called Bean 'Lad', the term he used for the soldiers he liked best or thought were worth the most. It was a small distinction, and never spoken of aloud. But it cut Bean to the core to hear it, and the wounded tone The Sergeant took when he said it. Bean didn't deserve that title. There was something wrong with him, no doubt about that, but there was also something wrong with The Sergeant if he thought Bean could redeem himself. But there was nothing wrong with The Sergeant. He knew what the future held in store for Bean, and wasn't about to shield Bean from it. But that didn't stop him from being desperately sorry about it.

The kid had been worth his weight in powerpacks all during the time he'd been here... until now. Cracking was one thing, but this was ridiculous. It didn't make any kind of sense, no matter how The Sergeant flipped it over in his mind. The only explanation was that Bean had gone soft. And that was about as believable as him thinking soap made good eating.

This wasn't some cadet, not some shiny rookie. And this was no mistake. The Sergeant knew Bean, knew he had been as coldly calculating this morning as he'd always been. For whatever reason, he'd decided that he had the right to make a decision, and that decision was to disobey standing orders.

The Sergeant was gathering himself for one final yell before he accepted the truth, but he never got the first word out, because he was (rather rudely) interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a Jedi.

"What's going on here?"

The Sergeant flinched. The Sergeant _never_ flinched. But Bean knew why. It was one thing to cuss Bean out in front of the other men, but a Jedi? A General? That was almost more than The Sergeant could take. Bean wasn't sure he himself could take it, not with knowing how The Sergeant felt about it too. It was just too mortifying. Maybe feelings had no place here, but they existed anyhow. He wanted to wither away and sink through the floor. Especially once he noticed that the Jedi had a Padawan and Captain in tow. That made it much worse.

"This man disobeyed orders, General," The Sergeant said, his voice betraying no emotion at all as he described both the nature of the offense and situation in which it took place, then adding, "It's not a question of whether he did it or not, General. He's admitted to it, and his gunner was witness."

"Well," said the General, "it sounds to me as if he's just the man to pilot us down there. I have business on Onithera, and came here looking for a pilot. Is he any good?"

"I... uh... sir?" The Sergeant couldn't switch gears that fast.

Neither could Bean. He'd accepted his fate, and changing course now seemed like trying to pilot an airship without any thrusters. He stood there dumbly, trying to process what he'd been told.

"Do you remember the coordinates where you found the survivors?" The General addressed this to Bean, who managed to squeak out an affirmative, "Then let's go."

The Captain leaned towards the Jedi and whispered something, but the Jedi brushed him off. That was how you knew Jedi were powerful. They could ignore a Captain's suggestions with a wave of the hand. If sergeants were Gods, Bean wasn't capable of even beginning to contemplate what a captain was. And this particular captain was one whose name was well known among the ranks (as was the general).

Captain Rex was a man to respect. More intelligent than most, infinitely more capable too. Not only that, but he was pretty fierce, demanded a lot of his men, and got every bit of what he asked for or else there would be Hell to pay. And the Jedi shushed him like he was nothing. Well, not entirely. The Jedi spared him a glance that appeared to be reassurance that Captain Rex's opinion was noted and valued, if it was currently being casually disregarded.

"Disobeying orders, huh?" General Skywalker had turned towards Bean, and his eyes seemed to burn a hole through the floundering trooper, "We'll see about that."

Captain Rex tried again. It was evident the General didn't understand the severity of Bean's infraction. That was reasonable, he was a Jedi, and their governing rules were different from those of the clones. Sometimes they didn't mesh well with the GAR.

"General Skywalker, are you sure you want to trust this man? He disobeyed orders once, like as not he'll do it again, especially knowing the penalty that's due."

"Your opinion is noted, Rex," General Skywalker replied, "you... what's your name?"

"PFC Bean, sir," Bean said automatically, his mind still scrambled.

"Bean. Alright, well, go get an airship ready. I'll be along shortly."

"Yes sir."

Bean practically fled the scene. He'd never been scared of anything in his life, but that Jedi... there was something deeply horrifying about how a Jedi could breeze in and change the course of regulated and lawful proceedings without even having to sign a form for it. He simply took over and aimed things in a new direction, upsetting the delicate balancing act that made up proper soldiering.

Bean ought to be shot. Instead, he was about to fly an airship carrying General Skywalker. It was a gross breach of standard procedure, by which Bean had lived and breathed for as long as he had existed. But there was one small comfort: a Jedi's Law was the true absolute.

If the Jedi said to do this, then that is just what you did, everyone from commander on down the line got with the program and forgot whatever standard procedure was. For the moment, Bean's life had been spared. But for how long? And to what end? He didn't know, but he was no deserter. He had no intention of running out. He'd do his job as best he could, same as always, and then come back and wait to be shot. He deserved worse.

"So the people you saw down there," the Jedi seemed to have come out of nowhere, and Bean jumped a little, "you're sure they were all clones?"

"Huh? I mean... sir?"

"Were. They. _All_. Clones?"

"They were wearing the armor, sir... I mean, General... General sir," Bean stopped himself before he could get any more embarrassed.

"That's not an answer," Skywalker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, "Never mind. Just take off."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Seeing the airship leave did not bring any stability to Volk's shattered world. That he had already known the truth was not the same as seeing it right before his eyes. It was one thing to know intellectually that you were hunted and had no sanctuary, and quite another to find yourself under attack by the very government you were born to protect. And that's what the airship represented.

It was not like Dagger and his lot, who had gone bad in the wilderness, wild as rabid animals. That was an airship, sent down from above, under orders to hunt down and kill. To kill _Fortune Actual_.

There was no hope left in him now. If they radioed for help, only their executioners would answer them. His optimistic remark that they might survive was in no way heartfelt. In fact, he wasn't fooling anyone. In his voice was the tone of sound defeat, something no clone is meant to bear. He is meant to win, or to die trying. He does not retreat, he advances to the rear. But this was a defeat. Complete. Total. Absolute. And, above all, final. There was nowhere left to run.

He had failed them. Failed them all. That he had never stood a chance at succeeding in the first place did not matter. He had thought to lead them from the start, seeing the weakness in both Mother and Tavis and thinking himself strong. And this was where that arrogance had led them.

Volk sat down among the rocks, and waited for the end.

But Tavis, bitterly exhausted and with little strength left in him, was not ready to give in. Shakily, assisted by a boulder, he got to his feet, or one of them anyway.

"You can give it up, Tay," Volk said quietly, "there's nowhere left for us to go."

Tavis did not answer him, but merely steadied himself and released the boulder to stand on his own. And took a step. His leg went from under him, of course, and he fell down. For once, Volk did not catch him, for Volk had given up and it no longer mattered to him what Tavis did.

The others looked on, not sure whether to help or do nothing. They were not idiots, they knew what the attack of the airship had meant. They knew they were done for, just as Volk did. Tavis seemed to be the only one among them that didn't appear to have gotten the message.

It took him almost a minute to get back to his feet, and he advanced another pathetic inch- and promptly collapsed again. Panting from the effort, he started all over. He'd made it about six inches.

"What are you doing?" Volk asked with a sigh of weariness that seemed to express the whole rotten journey thus far, "What do you expect to accomplish?"

"I'm going home," Tavis replied, his voice barely audible.

"Home? Tavis, we haven't got one. We've been disowned. They want to kill us," Volk protested without much enthusiasm.

"So what?" Tavis threw over his shoulder, dragging himself upright once more, "Do you have something more pressing on your schedule? If I'm to be executed, I intend to have completed my objective first. Maybe they think I should be shot, but I don't have to deliver proof of it."

"What's he on about?" Onoff whispered to Phisher, who didn't answer.

The next time Tavis fell, Phisher caught him, and kept him from going down.

"Thank you, Tavis," he said, much too softly for the others to hear.

It was enough. Once one of them stirred, they all did. Caden recommended that they alter their course. If the airship came back, they didn't want to be where they'd be expected, or out in the open where they might be easily spotted.

There was a problem with that. On the other side of the bog, they were presented with plains, much like those on the other side of the mountains. Cover wasn't easy to come by, though it wasn't as barren as the bog had been. There were sparse trees and some bushes, and the grass was waist high. In a pinch, they could drop to the ground and the grass itself might conceal them. And now they weren't so preoccupied with their footing, they could keep an eye out for airships.

They altered their trajectory, so that their objective would pass them on the right, then they'd loop back. It wasn't much of a course change, but anybody following a straight line from where they'd been spotted to their goal wasn't going to find them, and that was enough.

Proficient at bush travel now, they hardly disturbed the grass, stepping between the blades, and what tracks they left were hidden by those same grasses, concealing their passing with a soft rustle. Even if one could find their trail when they'd left the rocks, they'd be hard pressed to follow it. They made little sound as they moved, having learned to be stealthy as the Onitherans (and for much the same reasons).

A chucklehead wheeled overhead. They hadn't seen one of those since crossing through the mountains. It was, in a perverse way, a comforting sight. It told them that they were on familiar ground, that they'd left the jungle with its strange bugs and crazed clone troopers behind. A herd of the prey animals lumbered away at their approach, complaining in low bellows. Caden spotted a lizard on a mound of dirt in the distance, but the animal merely flicked a tongue and kept its distance.

 _Fortune Actual_ was a cohesive unit now, they moved in every way like the predators they'd become, their manner viewed from a distance was enough to intimidate the lone lizard. They didn't realize how much they'd changed, and this sign didn't impress upon them how very different they were now. And that was because they were so different. They were hunters. Predators. They weren't really a squad anymore, but what squads are meant to emulate. They were now a pack of trained killers, trained not just by man but by nature as well, experienced and wise in their environment.

They might have felt hopeless and discouraged, but that was a message they did not convey to others by their behavior. To the distant lizard, they appeared to be masters of their surroundings, accustomed to being the top predator in their environment. They were not helpless. Even their wounded moved with confidence and the unhurried dignity of one who has confidence in his ability to kill anything which dares to stand in his way. These clones were not what they had been before, and never would be again.


	28. Landing

Bean didn't much like landing. While he could pilot anything, the beast to which he'd been assigned was primarily a transport. Just because it had two gunner stations didn't make it any less so. In the GAR, every man fought, including pilots. But nobody kidded themselves into thinking that "lartys" could win the war all by their lonesome. Fact was, troopers were somewhat overly protective of their transports, knowing that a crashed transport could mean they didn't get picked up after the battle. Aside from the burning mess a transport left when it expired. And the difficulty of replacing good pilots.

Bean wasn't used to landing. Those transports that carried walkers had to land (in a manner of speaking. To be perfectly accurate, they didn't land either. Couldn't without crushing a walker, but they had to put enough pressure on the thing's "feet" that the clamps which held it in place would let go when you told them to), but not infantry carriers. It certainly looked like they landed, but they actually hovered. Keeping a breath off the ground prevented them from triggering any potential pressure explosives and also left them mobile, they could turn all the way around from that position if need be, something they could not do if they were actually on the ground instead of just near it.

That was the kind of precision flying not just any trooper could manage. Every Jedi seemed capable of doing it with ease, or so Bean had heard, but it took every bit of skill and inborn talent a clone could muster in order to pull off a drop and not lose his life or the lives of any of the men disembarking (what happened to them after they got off was none of a pilot's concern, he was only responsible for the "boots on deck", as it were).

But General Skywalker said land. And so, that's what Bean did, much as he would have preferred not to. He'd also have liked an actual landing site, instead of a semi-flat stretch of ground. Ground looks flat from above most of the time, but its always evident on landing exactly why they prefer to pave areas for landing. The transport shook, lurched and made an ungodly screeching sound as it scraped against a rock beneath it.

Bean flinched. From the sound, he knew the damage was minor, just a scrape on the hull, but it was more than he was meant to have. The Sergeant would gnaw on you hard enough that you'd think you'd actually lost the transport instead of just damaging it. Transports, he said, were more valuable than every trooper they ever carried combined. It wasn't true, of course, transports could be more easily replaced than training. But they were expensive, and clones knew that made them a nuisance. And no clone wants to be a nuisance to the GAR which he serves.

"Come on," Skywalker seemed to address everyone and no one when he said this.

"That means you, kid," Captain Rex told Bean.

"But sir, I'm a pilot. I'm not to leave the transport under any-"

"You like your head where it is, don't you?" Rex asked.

"Why yes sir, but I-"

"General Skywalker has taken a liking to you. So long as you don't ruin it, you may just get to keep your head on your neck where it belongs. Now move it."

Baffled, Bean nevertheless obeyed. He hadn't realized until just now that, if he could impress a Jedi, he might yet find a way out of the mess he'd put himself in. Did he deserve that? Probably not, but the Jedi had law over all of the GAR, which meant it wasn't Bean's privilege to decide what he deserved. Nor Captain Rex's either. Bean got the impression that Rex would have already shot him if he'd been left to his own devices. This was, perhaps, an unfair judgment, but Bean only had stories and first impressions to go on. Rex was not known for his intolerance per say, but he was decisive at least.

"Master," the Padawan spoke for the first time since Bean had met her, "I don't understand why we're here. Or what it is that we're meant to be looking for."

"We're looking for someone calling himself 'Phisher'," Skywalker replied, "And the truth about what really happened here," he didn't turn, but his next words were obviously directed at Bean, "What do you know about Onithera?"

"Very little, sir," Bean replied, "I was not assigned to the planet, merely the extermination of the Separatists, deserters and spies thereon."

"There were never any Separatists here," Skywalker said coldly, "And I doubt if there were any deserters either."

Bean, who had followed the little group about fifty feet from the transport, stopped dead for a moment. His brain processed the statement, its implications, and tried to make that and his orders reconcile into something that made sense. Either the Jedi's statement, or Bean's orders, had been wrong. Since both were, to his simple way of thinking, flatly impossible, he decided that his logic must be flawed. Jedi were never wrong, and neither were the Powers That Be. At least, that's what he'd been trained to think. But he couldn't resolve the puzzle with both being right. It was like giving a highly efficient computer a problem with no solution, and he might have stood there, thinking in helpless circles, for the rest of time had not General Skywalker interrupted his meltdown.

"Where, exactly, did you see the clones you fired on?" Skywalker asked.

"That ridge, just North of us," Bean replied, relieved to have something else to focus on, "There were eight of them, and I've never seen a more ragged looking bunch. They moved like specialists though."

By that, Bean meant like troopers who had extra training. Every now and then, exceptional troopers would be spotted among the ranks when they were young, cut from the others to receive extra or more specialized training. There was a theory that captains and above came from those special ranks, but Bean didn't know for sure how captains were forged. All he knew was that anything above a sergeant was a different breed of animal, even if they were still clones. You could aspire to be a sergeant, but anything higher was, for Bean, unthinkable.

"Rex?" Skywalker glanced sidelong at the captain.

"Nothing of that sort here, General," Rex shook his head, "In fact, going over the records, I'd say this was a dumping ground for soldiers who never should have made the grade in the first place."

"How do you mean?"

"Mainly soldiers who've nearly crossed the line one way or another. Disobedience, reckless endangerment, excessive aggression, refusal to be recalled-"

"That does complicate things," Skywalker interrupted, "There's no telling how clones like that might behave, left without any orders and with their command structure in shreds. Bean, which way do you think those men were headed?"

Bean, who had been trying to follow the conversation, almost failed to respond. Rex used big words, but Bean knew them, and understood their implications. The sort of thing Rex was talking about usually came from clones who were either going to desert, or do something so idiotic that they got themselves and anybody in their immediate vicinity killed. Or worse, they survived and then got shot for inexcusable incompetence. A planet of losers. Bean had heard of it before, but never really believed it was a thing. Just a threat instructors used to get your attention.

"I couldn't say for sure, sir," Bean replied, "Didn't spot them until we were almost on top of them. But, on the one side, they've got jungle cover. On the other, not a blessed thing, except a shelled out compound, but there's no reason to be going there because it's been abandoned since we-... since it was bombed."

"Jungle it is, then," Skywalker said, and started marching.

"Master," the Padawan called out, "watch out for the swamp!"

Skywalker didn't miss a beat, just looked over his shoulder and grinned.

"Follow my lead," he returned, but Bean got the impression that it was directed at himself and possibly Captain Rex, rather than the young Padawan (whose name Bean still hadn't managed to dredge up from his memory; he wasn't even sure he'd heard her name before).

The Jedi leaped out into the treacherous mire, seeming to dance across the low mossy growth rather than actually touching down. And he jumped a lot farther, while landing much more lightly, than Bean believed any clone could manage- regardless of how much training they had.

He was startled to hear Rex let out a weary sigh. The Captain shook his head, but holstered the blaster he'd drawn on exiting the transport (apparently satisfied that there were no nearby enemies) and started after the Jedi and Padawan. Following after them, he looked more clumsy than anything. Bean was struck dumb by that notion: he'd never thought anything could make a captain look so graceless.

Captains were fast, they were agile, and they were utterly tireless. At least, that's the impression they left you with, if you happened to see one from a distance. They were like sergeants... only more so. And, unlike sergeants, Bean had never heard of one raising his voice. Captains spoke in low, almost gentle tones, that nevertheless ripped you straight to the core.

But Captain Rex did look awkward, picking his footing as best he could while at the same time trying to keep up with the Jedi's ludicrous pace. It was ridiculous to do both. In fact, Bean was pretty sure (once he got out there) that it was impossible to do either one. Jedi leaped so far, so fast, and they did not wait for anybody. You couldn't use their path to mark your own, because between one leap and the next there might be impossibly deep mud, so you mostly had to make up your own and hope for the best.

About halfway across, Rex had the decency to pause and look back, make sure Bean was still with them and hadn't already gone and drowned himself. Bean was far behind, and would never know that the Jedi had actually marked the safest route; had Bean struck out on his own, he'd probably have gotten hopelessly mired and then been pulled under, possibly by the tentacle monster beneath the surface (which was something he didn't know anything about, which was probably for the best).

Had he been one of Rex's own, Rex would probably have gone back and given Bean a hand, as he had no pressing business on the other side of the bog and therefore no compelling reason to be any closer than shouting distance to the Jedi. But Bean did not belong to Rex, and the captain claimed no responsibility whatsoever for those who weren't his own, other than the professional courtesy to make sure they didn't up and die under his watch (not if it could be helped anyway).

Once satisfied that Bean was still making marginal forward progress, Rex plowed on. He'd had an ulterior motive for stopping. In working with Skywalker, Rex had learned to take breathers whenever he could find the excuse to, because General Skywalker seemed to be singularly unaware of the limitations of a clone, and Rex certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell him about them.

General Skywalker seemed to accept, with mild disappointment, that he sometimes had to wait for Rex to catch up in order to tell him something. And he seemed to think saying "hurry up" could somehow make a clone move faster. Rex had learned to take that stinging remark in stride, knowing it wasn't intentional cruelty, merely a lack of awareness. Skywalker was more than a little self involved at times.

Well, it wasn't his job to educate Generals, only to do his best to carry out their instructions and keep rude strangers from interrupting while they made battle plans. He could lend them unsolicited suggestions, he'd earned that right on making captain, but that was as far as it went.

He made it across in better time than any sane person would have expected of a clone, but still long after Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano, who had spent the time scanning the treeline and deciding what their next move was. Rex felt a flush of irritation in himself for not making faster time. He didn't like to miss out on planning sessions. Even if he had no suggestions, there was always the chance he could learn something new. And knowledge was something any good captain hungered for.

Bean was still three hundred yards back, but Anakin was tired of waiting. He simply picked Bean up, swung him over and deposited him on the ground next to Rex. Bean yelped on being grabbed, and had flailed about so much in the air that he landed on his face. Being plucked from the ground by Force powers was _not_ part of a clone's training. Rex didn't like it much, himself, but he'd learned to hold still for it. If you cooperated, you might at least land on your feet instead of your head.

Bean picked himself up, and Rex noted dispassionately that he was trembling. Rex didn't fault him for that, being carried around by apparently nothing (especially without warning) was a jarring experience. Anakin seemed to be wholly unaware of the unsettling nature of his powers and seldom gave warning for anything that he did. It was another thing Rex had come to accept.

Finding himself still in one piece and once more in control of his own locomotion, Bean calmed down. It didn't take him long, either. Maybe he was easily rattled, but he settled faster than most. Even if this wasn't one of his, Rex still found himself taking notes, making assessments of the clone's capabilities. You needed to know beforehand what you could expect of the brother beside you, and that you couldn't usually get from dry reports. You had to see for yourself.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Ahsoka muttered, looking at the darkness between the trees.

"Stick close," Anakin replied, "and be mindful of your surroundings."

He didn't have to assign himself point, that was a given. Jedi always went first. Not that some clones hadn't argued. Jedi were not just valuable, they were absolutely irreplaceable. But Rex had never met the Jedi who didn't insist on going first into a situation, and being the last one out if they could manage it. Maybe they weren't aware of trooper limitations, but they _were_ aware that clones were alive, and always took measures to ensure that they stayed that way if possible.

It didn't take a Jedi to notice it. The moment they entered the jungle, hostile eyes were on them.

"Well this is creepy," Rex muttered aloud, never too proud to admit when a place had him unsettled.

"Just keep your eyes open," Anakin threw over his shoulder.

 _And here I was planning on taking a nap,_ Rex thought sarcastically, but didn't say it.

He rarely shared those thoughts. It was a matter of showing respect. But it didn't entirely stop him from having them. He didn't like being treated as a moron who needed his hand held crossing the street. Knowing Jedi as he did, Rex knew he didn't have to say it to make his feelings known. Anakin Skywalker could sense them. But he didn't care, or maybe it amused him to annoy Rex.

Either way, Rex had learned to live with that too.


	29. Remnants

They'd ducked down as the airship passed by, and then continued on as though nothing had happened. There were no incidents from that point forward, and they reached the compound unhindered. It was everything they'd known it would be, but worse than they'd imagined.

It had been burned to the ground, except for the framework and some of the concrete walls that hadn't been blown apart by the explosions that must surely have rocked it. It had been a three building affair, just like what they'd left behind, but now it was nothing but a pile of rubble, and it was impossible to tell where one building ended and another began just from looking.

"We came all this way... for this?" Garm asked.

He'd let out not one complaint for the whole journey, even though he'd had plenty of reasons to do so. He had never once questioned their path or motivations, had followed along as cheerfully cooperative as a dog trained to Heel. But this was the last straw, the one that broke the camel's back. He had not allowed himself to think about the future, that was for the higher ups, he'd just put his shoulder into the harness and pulled as best he might under the assumption that his leaders knew what they were doing.

"All this way... for what?" Garm growled, and then let loose a despairing howl, "A pile of charcoal? We could've found that back where we started!"

Volk, without a word, punched him.

Hard enough that Garm fell down. He was largely unhurt, his helmet protected his nose from being broken, though it felt a bit like his brains had sloshed around inside his skull. With a snarl, Garm leaped to his feet and went for Volk. He'd served without question up to now, done everything asked of him and more, hadn't even resented being left behind after the river crossing, accepted his place at the bottom of the pile without protestation. But this was too much. Garm had had it, and he was ready to fight just about anything. He'd have punched a wall if that's all that had been available to him.

"Children, please," Tavis said wearily before they could get well underway, "If you've got to fight, at least do so away from the rest of us so you don't get in our way."

He might as well have stunned them with his blaster for the effect it had.

"Alright, let's have a look around. You find anything salvageable, you bring it back here. And I do mean anything. We can decide if it's worth its weight later."

Grumbling, Garm got to his feet and walked off by himself. Volk started after him, but Tavis held out a hand and shook his head.

"Leave him be. We've got more important things to do. He'll sort it out for himself, but it may take him awhile. Remember, Volk, nobody's ever asked him to think before."

While that wasn't the literal, honest-to-goodness truth, nor was it as simple as all of that, it was close enough for Volk to get the message. With a growl, he turned away from Garm and paired off with Damyu to search deeper in the compound for any items of interest. Tavis, after watching the others pair off and disappear into the wreckage, sank down to a sitting position and put his head in his hands.

Each of Garm's words had struck like a sledgehammer blow. Tavis had led them here, and this was the end of the mission. He'd brought them here. Here was the place they'd fought so hard to reach, and there was nothing. There wasn't anything at all. Tavis hadn't fully believed it until now. It had been the only hope they could cling to, and now even that fantasy had been dashed to pieces.

Volk was right. There was nowhere for them to go. Nothing left to do. Not so much as a radio tower was left on this godforsaken rock. He'd known, but never quite admitted it. But it was over now, well and truly. All that was left was to wait to die.

Tavis had known that back when he'd crawled away to die by himself. Volk hadn't convinced him otherwise, only that he had to complete his mission before he could do so peacefully. Well, he'd done it, fat lot of good it did. Well, it would have to do. He'd done what he'd set out to do, and that's all anybody had any right to expect. Volk could have his squad, Phisher could keep his secrets, and the rest of them would get along just like they always had.

Without any further delay, Tavis closed his eyes and went to sleep, not even checking his surroundings first. He didn't care if something came upon him unawares and tore him to pieces. It didn't matter now.

Maybe it never had.

* * *

A horrible clacking noise came from the bush to the right. Something jumped out at them, but Ahsoka had drawn and used her lightsaber before it even had a chance to land, slicing the hideous beetle clean in half. It tumbled to the ground in two twitching pieces, and its mandibles gnashed spasmodically.

"Ahsoka!" Anakin scolded, "Look before you use your weapon; that bug was harmless."

"It certainly didn't look harmless," Ahsoka defended herself.

"Well look again," Anakin snapped.

He had sensed the bug before it pounced, and dismissed it out of hand. It had not jumped out at them in aggression. Actually, it had been startled by them and flushed from its hiding place without first checking where the potential threat was. It hadn't even known what hit it.

"Sorry," Ahsoka didn't sound sorry, but she tried to spare the dead beetle a pitying look.

It wasn't easy. The monster was hideous and looked deformed before she'd cut it in two, and now its innards were exposed and making soft gooey noises as they spilled out of the thing's shell. She shuddered and hurried to catch up with Anakin, who appeared to have forgotten the incident.

Rex paused to examine the carcass. Harmless, eh? Well, it was an object lesson anyway. If it had been him where Ahsoka was, he'd have shot the bloody thing. Frankly, he'd still rather shoot anything like it, just to be on the safe side. But General Skywalker had said 'no', and that was final. Rex filed away the bug's features for future reference and moved on.

He noticed Bean stopping to look the bug over after he'd passed it by, and wondered if the kid had the sense to do the same as he had, or if Bean was just mulling over how repulsive the beast looked. Did the boy have any sense in his head? Well, he'd disobeyed orders, so the odds didn't favor it.

A clamoring sound overhead caused him to stop and look up sharply. A pair of bizarre eyes winked at him, and then a small, furry body leaped from one high branch to another. The animal shrieked an unmistakable alarm call, and suddenly the trees were alive with hundreds of the beasties, whatever they were. Anakin cocked his head to take note of them, and then ignored them. Ahsoka mimicked him when she thought he wasn't looking. Rex shook himself and followed their example. It wasn't easy to ignore that racket overhead, but the Jedi didn't seem to be concerned by it.

And then it hit him.

From the left there came a streak of darkness, fast and low. The trek had been uphill, and when it hit Rex in the chest like a ton of bricks and he lost his balance, the tumble downhill was inevitable. Bean leaped out of the way with a startled yelp, and then something hit him too. Only he didn't follow Rex down, because he was knocked from the forged trail and onto a shelf of rock, where Rex lost track of him in favor of attempting to preserve his own life against the onslaught.

Rex had phenomenal reaction time for a clone, but he'd been taken wholly by surprise (something that didn't happen to him often), and the sudden tumble was accompanied by a deep pain in his right shoulder- he recognized it as the feeling of a blade driven to the hilt -and a firm hit in the stomach with either a knee or something very much like one, that didn't really hurt him but knocked his wind.

He hit the ground on his back, and his adversary leaped clear. He rolled twice before getting his footing- and was immediately struck again before he could get further than hands and knees. The knife twisted in his shoulder as he was bowled over and he was unable to keep a hiss of pain from escaping him. So far, it was the first sound he'd made.

By now, he had gotten himself in gear. He caught the offender's knife hand by the wrist even as he was rolled over, forcing his adversary to take the fall with him this time. He didn't bother making the hand let go of the knife, he just twisted the wrist until a satisfying 'snap' told him he'd broken it. The hand let go, and a boot struck him in the chest, pushing him back with enough force that he had to let go.

He landed at the base of the trail winded but on his feet, his eyes searching for his enemy, who had disappeared into the brush. It was a clone, or somebody trained like one anyhow. He knew that much without having gotten a fair look at his adversary.

There was something deathly wrong about it though, something that sparked an instant and unreasoned hatred that he didn't know how to cope with, especially as he knew by instinct that it had little to do with the fact that he'd been attacked.

He didn't wait to see if his adversary could shoot at him. Having assessed in an instant that his enemy was not in view, he ducked for the nearest cover- which was unfortunately uphill the way he'd come; the only thing at his back was the bog, which provided zero cover. A shot zinged over his head but he ignored it, if you heard a shot then you were alright; you'd never hear the one that bought you the farm.

Rex didn't know where Anakin or Ahsoka had gotten to, he figured they must have been attacked as well. He'd pretty much forgotten about Bean. It didn't matter anyway; Rex couldn't return to the group until he'd dealt with the enemy who had barred his path.

This time he heard the enemy coming, either because he was paying more attention or because they had become clumsy. When they crashed through the brush on his right, he turned in time to meet them. This time, they hit the dirt before he did. Whipping out a blaster, he shot them point blank. And then he finally took in the black armor, which was what he'd seen but not processed. It wasn't for camouflage, and he knew it. It was a clear statement: I Do Not Belong To The GAR.

Deserter. Odd though, most deserters were out to avoid trouble. This one had attacked as though he had some personal vendetta against Rex. But, removing the scarred helmet, Rex was certain that he'd never seen this fellow before. To anybody but a clone, clones have all got the same face (minus scars and haircuts), but Rex knew every one of his men by sight. This was not one of them, nor anyone he recalled having encountered before in his life. Filing that knowledge away, he stood up and looked around, marking his position and direction, then setting off to find Anakin and Ahsoka.

Anakin and Ahsoka had also been attacked by a handful of wild-eyed clones. The battle hadn't been long, or particularly fair. When they were finished, three clones lay dead. Bean's had gotten away. It hadn't taken Rex that much longer to finish off his, he just had to climb up to join the others.

"I don't understand, Master," Ahsoka admitted, "These clones weren't angry, they were just afraid. Like they were attacking out of sheer desperation. But we never did anything to them."

"No, but somebody did," Anakin replied, "And they saw us land in that airship, I'm sure. They just assumed we'd come to finish the job. And it looks like we did," he glanced up as Rex rejoined them, "Rex, you okay?"

Rex glanced at his shoulder. The knife was still buried in it. He stood still to let Anakin pull it out, grunting only once. His right arm would be useless for awhile, but he could walk alright. He told Anakin so. Anakin looked at him dubiously, but then shrugged.

"I suppose there's not really another choice. We can't very well leave you here or send you back by yourself. But be more careful, Rex, I don't want to lose you."

"Can do, sir," Rex replied.

He made no attempt to explain that he had been being as careful as was possible for him, and that being more careful wasn't really a thing he could do. He just agreed cooperatively.

* * *

Garm had not abandoned his squad, merely stomped off to cool down and gather his thoughts. Without thinking about it, he set about finding a way to climb up to the top of what was left of the building. Habitually, he went to stand as lookout, to serve as guard without being asked.

He found a twisted piece of steel building skeleton and climbed up it, sure footed as a goat. At the top, he was surprised at how far he could see. He could see the jungle from there. And, closer, four figures just leaving the bog and heading towards that same jungle. Closer still... he didn't believe it.

But... he could see it, and there was nothing wrong with his vision. An airship. Landed. On the ground. He felt a thrill of hot fury. That was the same ship that had tried to kill him! It bore the same number on its side. He snarled silently, and then got control of himself. It meant more than that, didn't it?

Suddenly, his mind clicked into overdrive.

Before he'd managed to organize his thoughts, he was scrambling down from the structure and dashing recklessly across the debris of the buildings, seeking Volk. He had completely forgotten the fight from minutes before, the deeply ingrained drive to tell his superior what he'd found shut it out.

"Volk!" Garm slid haphazardly around a corner of broken concrete and nearly collided with Volk, who tensed to meet him and then became confused as he realized Garm hadn't come to finish what he'd started, "Sir..." Garm was panting and had to wait a moment, "Sir, you have to see this."

Volk didn't ask questions, he simply followed Garm back and then climbed up the steel frame and stood next to him. He saw just what Garm had seen, minus the four people, who had since vanished from view. Garm told him about them, but Volk was not interested.

It was a shot at survival. Or perhaps revenge. Volk didn't much care which.

Damyu was waiting at the bottom, and Volk called down to him, told him to gather the others.

"Tell them to forget the rest of the search, drop whatever they've found if it isn't supplies or weapons. We've got a shot at getting off this rock, and I for one intend to take it."

"Should I tell them that too?" Damyu asked.

"Don't bother. Just tell them we're leaving."

Damyu scampered off, and Volk climbed down to wake Tavis and tell him what they'd found, while Garm stayed up to keep an eye on the ship and any activity around it. To Volk's surprise, Tavis seemed to be profoundly disinterested in the ship. Possibly he didn't understand its significance.

"I'm not going anywhere. I said I'd come here, and here I've come, and here I mean to stay."

Volk decided not to argue. If they could take the ship, they could bring it back here, and he'd argue with Tavis then. Right now, he had the overwhelming sensation that time was of the essence. And then he realized what it was that was bothering him.

If he knew about the airship, sure as Hell the _Death Squad_ knew about it too.


	30. Vengeance

"A Jedi?" Dagger hissed speculatively as his favorite hunter reported what he'd seen after driving the straggling survivors (including one who'd adopted the _Death Squad'_ s black armor) he'd found straight into the intruders, "Here? Interesting."

The hunter stood uneasily, waiting nervously for Dagger's second reaction.

"You were right not to engage," he said after letting the minion sweat it out for longer than was really fair, "And you were wise to look around, as is evidenced by the ship you found. Unmanned now. Right there for the taking. No, I don't think we'll do battle with the Jedi. Let the Onitherans have their way with him, we'll go around. Gather the others, we're moving out in ten. Once you've done that, go and see if you can find one of the Onitheran chicks and lure it into the path of the Jedi. That ought to keep him busy, especially when the mother hears the chick's distress call."

The local Onitherans were a mother and three of her half-grown chicks. The chicks had just started to become really dangerous, hunters in their own right, but they still depended on their mother. They were reckless and aggressive in their youth, the chick wouldn't hesitate to try and bring down the Jedi. It would fail, and probably die for it. But the mother and other chicks would hear and come on the run. Even Dagger and his lot would not fight a pack of Onitherans.

Even if the Jedi could finish them off, that was none of Dagger's concern. Only that the Jedi be kept away from the transport long enough for him to get off the planet. Dagger hated it here. Though he had no intention of returning to the Republic, he had every intention of leaving the planet now that it seemed possible. Besides, he was running out of GAR troopers to slay here. There was a whole galaxy full of them. Not that Dagger had any love for the Separatists. No, he merely hated his brothers, any of them who were not a part of his own fold.

The hunter he'd dispatched knew that he'd just been given a trial. Dagger would not wait for him to report in, which meant he would have to move twice as fast as any of the others because they were going to start off without him. And he dared not return without having carried out his set task.

Dagger had little loyalty towards his own, less if they were not useful to him. Dagger had every confidence that the hunter would be able to find an Onitheran chick and lure it to the desired point, and then duck out before things got hot, and it was his opinion that the hunter could catch up too. But, if not... well, Dagger had no need of weaklings.

* * *

Bean wouldn't have said he was impressed if anybody had asked, but he was. Captains were something else, sure, but this one took a serious knife wound and acted like it was nothing. That seemed impressive by any standard, even the Jedi showed more concern over the injury than Rex did.

He didn't know that, beneath the helmet, Rex was very concerned. Never mind that the pain was distracting, he'd allowed himself to be taken by surprise and it had nearly cost him his life. And Rex got the feeling that those clones weren't the only ones out here. More than that, he didn't like closed in places, especially when they were dark. They made him feel like he was cornered, and Rex hated being put in a corner to do his fighting. He wasn't one to retreat, but he didn't like it if there was nowhere to reposition to if things got too hot in one place.

The animal paths were the only way to go here, unless you knew the place. If you jumped through a bush, you might find yourself falling off a jungle cliff, or maybe down a spider hole (assuming Onithera had giant spiders. Most places seemed to), or something worse. Point was, you couldn't _see_ where you were landing, so you'd best not do any capering about unless you knew the place. And Rex didn't. But he knew that the clones here did. They could be everywhere and nowhere.

He also got the impression that there was something worse here. Ahsoka was right: the clone he'd tangled with had been desperate, it was the only explanation of the tactics used.

Onithera, so far as Rex knew, wasn't home to any sentient species. But that didn't mean there weren't any dangerous ones. Might it be one of those? Rex didn't think it felt right. The clone he'd fought with had been just as afraid of being hurt by him as it was determined to kill him. That fear had, of course, been the clone's undoing. But that meant either the clone thought he was one who had done the shooting of the compounds (something he still wasn't clear on), or else...

He didn't quite get to finish the thought.

From the dark came another clone in black, but this one darted out of the bushes and back among them so fast they didn't have time to react until he was already gone. And then a shrieking sound split the air and, like a demon from hell, a black beast broke cover and struck.

Anakin anticipated it and dodged, but a large wing decked him. There wasn't room enough to maneuver properly. The animal, heavy as a grown man, and a bit taller, whirled towards Ahsoka, who had drawn her lightsaber. The animal snapped its jaws, and then drew its head back, flapping enormous wings. In the midst of the wings, it lashed out with front claws, and Ahsoka struck it a glancing blow, leaving a red gash on the creature's arm. It shrieked, and hopped backwards.

Anakin, still on the ground, was obliged to roll out of the way. He got his feet under him and drew his own lightsaber, but was reluctant to kill a dumb animal if it could be driven away.

The beast was shaking and screaming and flapping its wings, but not advancing. And then came the answering roar, which shook the trees to their roots. And a howl answered the roar, and a secondary howl echoed it. They were surrounded.

* * *

Dagger and his squad knew the best way across to the plains. Though they had taken to the jungle, they had not forgotten where they came from, and there had been many times when hunting was better on the plains. Both kinds of hunting. They crossed with none of the uncertainty of _Fortune Actual_ , and it took them less time even than it had taken Anakin and Ahsoka, who had been forced to pause before each leap to sense the next place to go. Dagger and his lot didn't have to pause for anything.

Nevertheless, it was getting dark by the time they made it across, the day was very nearly gone. And then they heard the distinctive roar of a mother Onitheran. That gave them pause, long enough to see the last member of their number bounding down the slope and plunging headlong into the bog. It was dark and he couldn't see, but could pick his way across by the feel of the ground beneath his boots.

Dagger deigned to wait for him. He was feeling indulgent. From the distance and direction of the Onitheran's roar, and a subsequent blaster shot, he knew that _Death Squad_ could reach the airship before the Jedi even if he were to turn now and run all the way back. Even Jedi had their limits.

Then, from the direction of the airship, their came a high pitched call, the sound of an Onitheran trying to warn an enemy off before going on the attack. It was a youngster by the sound of it. One of the chicks, out here? Dagger had never known them to cross the bog, it was something only the adults did. The challenge came again, and he knew it wasn't one he was familiar with. He recognized the call of every local Onitheran. This one was very young and matched none of the ones he knew.

He turned to one of his men.

"That squad that passed through and killed two of ours... they had an Onitheran with them, didn't they?" he already knew, the question was just to get it confirmed.

"I believe so, sir."

Dagger half-closed his eyes, not sure whether he was feeling anger... or merely desire. Blood lust welled up in him as he thought of the only clone who'd ever managed to take down one of his own. To kill that clone before leaving... that would be the greatest outcome. He'd been looking forward to that for some time now, but there'd been no sign of that blasted invader squad.

"'And death shall fall upon them like a plague'."

"Sir?" the clone at his right spoke hesitantly.

"You never met the man who said it," Dagger replied, his tone distant, "Neither have I. I believe he was quoting some work I've never read. And never will."

"He?"

"A Jedi. Interesting lot. But not our concern right now. Come, we have a meeting with Death ahead."

That, the man understood. He turned and told the others to fall in, and Dagger led the way. There were only seven left of the _Death Squad_ , including Dagger. But seven would be enough. _Fortune Actual_ had taken him by surprise once. But never again. After this night, they would never do anything again.

* * *

"Theran, what's the matter with you?" Caden demanded.

Theran shrieked again, listening it seemed to the distant roar of an angry Onitheran. Caden didn't want the chick to provoke that distant animal and bring it to them. Especially not right now. They'd hit a snag. Not one among them was a pilot. Doc was the closest to being one, but his experience with airships was long in the past and he was having trouble getting the thing to start.

"Theran, please," Caden grumbled, "Hush."

"What's his problem?" Volk asked, ducking out of the airship.

Caden had been placed on the outside to stand watch. The others had gone inside to look around. It had been a fair piece since they'd been in an airship, and they'd believed they would never see one again. Theran's cries got Volk's attention. Garm was behind him.

"I don't know. There's an Onitheran out there in the jungle and it seems to be driving him nuts."

"Garm," Volk didn't say anything more.

Immediately, Garm melted into the darkness, angling away from the airship at a slow lope. Volk nodded to Caden and they swept in the opposite direction, heading uphill to a better vantage point. Theran stood his ground and attempted a roar, which was more of a squeak.

Volk paused on a knoll and looked out at the drawing night. It was too light for night vision, too dark to see clearly. He wasn't looking for anything clear though. He spotted movement, and it was enough. He dropped to his belly, Caden fell with him without being told.

"That's no Onitheran," Caden whispered, "You saw how it moved."

"Not it. Them," Volk replied.

"What do we do?"

"Absolutely nothing. Not 'til they get past us."

"But what about the others, in the airship? They won't have any warning."

"They've all the warning they need. Listen."

Caden listened, and heard Theran shrieking a higher note than ever before. Then his voice became a growl, deep and really rather fierce if you didn't know how small the owner of that voice was.

"If they're ignoring that, then they deserve to be shot," Volk whispered.

"I nearly did."

"Then you, my friend, are an idiot."

"You'll get no argument from me," Caden replied with a rueful grin.

"Together then?"

"Yes sir."

They had no radio to coordinate. They had no plan in place. They had little advance warning. But it didn't seem to matter to Volk. He knew where Garm was without having to check, knew Theran's warning would be enough for the clones in the airship, knew Caden would stand by him once the fighting started. He knew... or... maybe, for the first time, he trusted. Perhaps he at last had the faith which had pointed Mother this way so long ago, the faith that had led Tavis so far, that had cause the others to follow even when there seemed no hope left. Or maybe he just didn't have a choice.

"You know, I thought we were going to get revenge on the guys who shot at us," Caden said, "But I didn't expect it to be these particular guys."

"I like these better. The other ones missed us," Volk replied, "These are the ones that hurt us. And I'd bet money if I had it that they were what drove those others to us for the slaughtering."

Theran gave a cry of alarm, and issued out a loud hiss. Right about now, he'd be ducking through the grass, running to Caden for protection since the thing he was trying to scare wouldn't leave.

"That's our cue," Volk said, then remembered something.

There'd been something Mother had always been trying to get them to say, but none of them would cooperate. Volk had asserted that it sounded stupid, and Tavis hadn't disagreed. He said it now.

" _Fortune_ goes with us."

And Caden answered," _Actual_ survives."

Together they rose to meet their fate, to fight, to kill and -if necessary- to die for the sake of _Fortune Actual_. For all they had lost, for everything they were, and for what they had yet to become.


	31. Darkness

Challenging calls came from either side and up ahead on the trail where the young Onitheran continued to stand its ground. But the attack came from behind. It would have been easier to predict the actions of virtually any other species. But Anakin didn't get the sense that these creatures knew what they were going to do until a split second before they did it. Did that speak of intelligence, keeping an open mind to all the possibilities and then filing it down to one single action a moment before? Or was it stupidity?

He didn't have time to wonder, as there was a sudden rush of motion from behind, an enormous something seeming to race out of nowhere at all. Bean had been facing that way, but there wasn't enough warning for him to get off a shot before he was knocked flat. A shot went wild, a blaze of red shooting straight up into the sky. The worst it did was maybe slice off a few tree leaves on the way.

The creature barreled on past him, slamming into Rex's side and bringing him down as well. Anakin began to turn towards it, but the smaller animal that had first attacked them gave a sudden bellow and ran for him, and a rustling in the bushes to the animal's right spoke of another mimicking it.

The large one whirled towards Ahsoka next, but it caught Anakin with its spiked wing. It sliced through several layers of clothing, and one spike grazed his cheek, but mostly the impact nearly knocked him down. He was forced to leap back, clear of the giant wings, which were far more dangerous than those of the smaller ones. He'd come to realize that the first beast was a baby, or maybe a teenager.

Rex, from his position on the ground, fired a shot at the larger beast. At once it turned, snaking its head towards him with its body following at a speed that seemed impossible for something so large. Ahsoka ducked the wing as it passed her by, but the third youngster took her distraction and leaped onto her from behind, pinning her face down.

The mother animal was largely unhurt by Rex's shot, but she came down on him like a ton of bricks. With one front limb, she cuffed him hard, forcing him to drop his blaster or lower his arm in order to avoid losing it (and the blaster too). He chose the latter, and the beast planted her other forelimb against his already damaged shoulder. She dug in with her talons and managed to elicit a cry of pain.

That sound got the attention of all the youngsters. They recognized the wounded prey sound, it was one they spent most of every day listening for. When they heard it, they came on the run to assist their mother in slaying whatever she had caught, and taking the lion's share of the prize. They attempted to do the same now.

Ahsoka kicked hers off and, using the force, pushed it back. Anakin merely had to menace the two facing him with his lightsaber. One of them had already been struck and was wary of approaching. The other was too timid to attack without aid of its sibling and merely hissed in frustration.

"Stop!" Anakin barked the order to everyone at once.

Bean, who had been lining up a shot at the largest animal's head, stayed where he was. Rex had been trying to get his left hand on the blaster he'd lost hold of when the claws dug into him, and had just gotten hold of it. He made no further move, eyes on his adversary but ears ever tuned to listen for any order from Skywalker. Ahsoka had turned to aid Rex, but stood where she was, much as she didn't want to. She cast a glance at Anakin, wondering what he thought he was doing. But he had eyes only for the mother animal, who had turned her head to look at him when he spoke.

It was no Jedi mind trick he used now, nor did she understand his words. The speech was merely to give himself a guide for his intonation. One thing he knew about languages was that tone of voice was almost universal. You could tell angry, sad, frightened and aggressive all from tone, even if you didn't have the ability to sense moods on a deeper level. He used tone now to convey his meaning.

"If you kill him, there's no going back," Anakin said.

He made one mistake, and that was to take a single step closer. With a growl, the beast dug her claws further into the flesh of the one she had pinned, until she managed to wring a gasp from him. Anakin stopped, but didn't dare spare Rex a glance. The mother beast relaxed a bit.

"I do not want to fight with you. I have no interest in your young, your food or your territory. I only want to go in peace. But, if you kill him, know that neither you nor your offspring will live to see another sunrise. That, I promise you."

When the animal lessened the pressure on his shoulder, Rex had made a slight instinctive move to raise his weapon. He had a clear shot at the underbelly of the animal. But it took nothing more than a twitch of Anakin's hand telling him 'no' to put a stop to that. Rex had the same survival instinct as any of his kind, though the desire to fight was stronger still. Anakin's authority overrode both.

The animal raised her muzzle slightly, and issued out a low whirring sound, like a slow spinning fan blade. Ahsoka was forced to jump aside as the young rushed at once to her side, answering purrs in their throats. She touched noses with them, and then chirped a command, followed by a nip of rebuke when the chicks failed to obey. They bounced off into the bushes, one clipped Bean with its tail as it went, but he didn't react to it. Then the mother animal hissed, and backed off. She backed all the way into the bushes, out of sight, and then sound told them that she'd turned to run after her young.

Ahsoka let out a relieved breath, but Rex was the first to move, sitting up rather painfully. Now instead of just one hole in his armor, he had four. The claws hadn't gone quite as deep as the knife blade, but the blade had cut only muscle, where the tip of each claw had found a nerve to sit on.

"You okay?" Anakin asked, offering Rex a hand to his feet.

"Well enough, sir," Rex replied, accepting the assistance.

"You know, maybe I should have left you at home. You seem to attract trouble wherever you go on this planet," Anakin remarked.

"That does seem to be the case," Rex admitted reluctantly.

"Master, shouldn't we return to the ship?" Ahsoka asked, "It's getting dark. We'll never find anything this way. Maybe we could start again in the morning?"

"Agreed," Anakin said, "I was hoping our quarry was nearby, and I had no idea how dangerous it was out here. We'll need to be more careful tomorrow."

"How did you know?" Ahsoka asked as they started to head back.

"Know what?" Anakin responded.

"That those creatures didn't want to eat us, or really fight at all?"

"That was the easy part," Anakin told her, "What I didn't know was whether or not they'd listen to me."

Ahsoka's eyes widened as she absorbed that. Had Anakin really gambled Rex's life on a possibility that a primitive species had enough powers of reason to understand him? Or was he just messing with her?

Meanwhile, Bean had gained a new admiration and respect for Rex, and possibly captains in general. It hadn't been anything at all for Bean to hold his fire. But Rex had a clear shot, and would have been the next one to buy it. He'd had every reason to shoot, only one reason to hold still. Bean tried to imagine how hard it would have been for him to do that. In the end, the Jedi had been right, but you couldn't know at the time that what he did would always work.

Bean was glad he wasn't a captain, and had no chance of becoming one. They might be superior to all the rest below them, but that only meant harder work and more responsibility and greater risk. And answering directly to Jedi. A private or corporal could go his whole life without seeing a Jedi, a sergeant or lieutenant might not ever speak to one directly, but a captain or commander... Bean tried to imagine keeping pace with a Jedi all the time, and failed at that too.

Now they were heading back, Rex took point, which was why he saw the brief flash of light through the trees in the general direction of the airship. He stopped where he was, waiting for a repeat. Seeing nothing, he left the trail to get a better line of sight. He didn't wait for the others, they were a tightly packed bunch and could see him without his telling them what he was up to.

"What is it, Rex?" Anakin asked, the first to notice Rex's sudden agitation.

"I'm not sure," Rex said, "But it came from the direction of the ship."

They looked, for several minutes stood still and watched, but there was no repetition of the light, and Rex hadn't been able to clearly identify it through the trees. Maybe it wasn't there at all.

"Maybe I was mistaken," Rex said, though it cut him to the quick to admit such a failing.

"I doubt it," Anakin replied gently, "You thought you saw something, and you probably did. No telling what it was though. Come on, I want to get back and take a closer look at your shoulder."

Rex followed, somewhat reluctantly. He didn't like the possibility that he was seeing things, or that he was alerting on things that didn't matter. But he didn't really believe either of those theories. He was sure he saw something, and he wanted to know what it was, and where it had originated from.

He realized Onithera was beginning to get to him. It seemed like the only thing he'd done right today was listen to Anakin, and that wasn't nearly enough. Anybody could follow instructions. Rex tried to shake it off. Just having a bad day was all. Everybody got those. Even captains.

It nagged at him. Looking ahead, seeing how casually Anakin had taken over on point, he knew it was bothering his leader too. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. But at least point was Anakin's problem now. Rex didn't really feel up to it at the moment. Having been flattened twice was no laughing matter, and being repeatedly wounded was bordering on inexcusable incompetence. Still, Rex knew he'd done only what he could, and that was all Anakin expected of him.

A fog rolled in as they reached the edge of the trees. The sky was black overhead, but there was enough light from stars and moons to see by. If it weren't for the fog, that is, a thick gray-white soup spilling across the land and rendering everything beneath it wholly invisible.

Anakin didn't hesitate. He didn't need to see. Ahsoka didn't either, following along behind him without delay. Rex paused only a moment, and then plunged in, guided by memory and the confidence of those ahead of him, trusting blindly in what he could not see. It took Bean much longer to work up the courage to follow, but he did... eventually.

It was much harder going back than it had been coming out, or maybe that was an illusion brought on by the need to rest. Bean was as athletic as any of his kind, but it had been a long day, and a long march to nowhere ending in an about face and return home empty-handed.

Again Rex stopped halfway across, and this time did not just make sure he was still in one piece. This time, Rex waited for him. Bean didn't know why Rex did that, or why exactly it made him feel better. But it did. He supposed maybe it was that he'd been alone all day, in spite of following Rex everywhere he hadn't really been acknowledged in much of any way. Bean's day had started with the biggest mistake of his life, what should have been his last. And nobody would have missed him, he supposed. But Rex was waiting for him. It was more than anybody else had ever done.

For that, Bean was grateful. He hurried to catch up.


	32. Den of Wolves

"Master..."

"Yes, I sense it too."

It is enormously difficult, if not impossible, to take a Jedi fully by surprise. Jedi with young (that is, Padawans) are almost twice as alert. Not because their Padawans need to be defended (though a Padawan can learn a thing or two from a Master, they can defend themselves quite well), but because a Jedi knows that he must be aware of everything at least as soon as his Padawan is so that he can not only anticipate their actions but also increase their confidence in him.

So when Anakin and Ahsoka approached the ship, they did not do it blindly. Though silence and darkness greeted them, they knew while they were still yards away that all was not peaceful. Death hung in the air like a warning from ghosts. Something had happened here, and they were no longer alone. From that vast darkness came the sensation of a presence, and then another. Multiples, shifting in the night like phantom watchers, keeping their distance but unafraid of the newcomers. Suspicious, but not yet aggressive. Anakin hoped Ahsoka had sensed that too.

They hadn't come here to fight, and those beyond sight didn't want to either.

Rex and Bean closed ranks, each keeping an eye on the other's blind spot, and maintaining a distance between themselves and the Jedi for safety's sake. If a shot meant for Anakin missed, it would not hit Rex by mistake. Likewise, any shot meant for Rex would miss Anakin.

Neither Bean nor Rex could sense things like Anakin and Ahsoka, but Rex had noted the shift in Anakin's demeanor earlier, and noticed it now as well. Bean responded to Rex's altered behavior without questioning it. Anakin had known he liked Bean from the start.

Anakin would not admit it, but he was surprised by what attacked him, when, and where from. It was only his fast reflexes that saved him from being injured when the little spit of an Onitheran leaped upwards from the grass. He put a hand out to defend his chest and throat, and the creature wrapped itself around his arm. The hind claws scrabbled at the air, but the front limbs got a grip and the strong beak dug into his hand. Or tried to anyway. But the hand wasn't alive, and it was stronger than bone anyway, so about all the beak did was tear Anakin's glove.

With his free hand, Anakin grabbed the animal by the back of the neck and pried it off, whereupon it set about making a tremendous racket. Like a few creatures in the galaxy, the Onitheran did not employ teeth, tongue, lips or mouth to make sounds. A complex vocal arrangement in the throat produced every noise, and the mouth simply opened and got out of the way. The sound the Onitheran made now was something between a gurgle and a chirp, rather like the noise a newly hatched crocodile makes when calling for its mother.

"Cade, cade, cade, cade, cade," the voice called steady as a cricket song, "Cade, cade, cade."

Anakin didn't know it, but this was the chick's equivalent of "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" Nor did he have any way of knowing that the chick's "mother" was no Onitheran (he didn't even have a name for the species he now had hold of).

He took a step forward, and a blaster shot buried itself in the dirt an inch in front of him. He could have dodged, could have drawn his lightsaber and blocked. If the shot had been intended to hit him, which it hadn't. The shooter had hit exactly what they meant to. It was a warning.

"Freeze," a voice cold enough to grow ice in your veins growled from the night, and its tone added what the words did not, _or the next one goes through your head._

Anakin could duck a shot, dodge another, block a third. Maybe more, if the group wasn't synchronized. But it was, he could sense it. The only ruffled member of the bunch was well back, and that one alone wanted him dead, but only since he'd grabbed hold of the chick and it had begun calling. There was also the matter of Anakin's own group. Ahsoka could hold her own, though not yet as well as Anakin, but the weight of numbers, the advantage of having them surrounded, all counted against them. Besides, Anakin didn't want this confrontation to end with either side dead.

"I'll thank you to unhand my sentry," the owner of the voice stepped from the shadow of the airship.

He looked like a GAR trooper, moved like a GAR trooper, but there was something different about him. Something Anakin felt he didn't want to challenge. Not tonight, anyway. Not with one of his party already injured and himself along with the others worn from a day's adventures. A second trooper slipped behind the first, silent as his own shadow, a blaster rifle drawn but muzzle lowered.

Anakin realized the comment had been directed at him. He looked down at the Onitheran in his hand. It had gone still and quiet, its luminous eyes wide. Anakin let it go. A soft whistle came from the second trooper and the chick ran to him, slid around behind him and scowled past his legs at Anakin.

Anakin sensed a shift in Rex's demeanor and turned to look at him, shook his head. Rex wanted to end this, and resented anyone blocking his way, or Anakin's, especially if they were clones. But Anakin knew he'd be dead before he got a shot off. There was a sniper out there. A damn good one too.

"I must say, you're not quite what I expected," the speaker said, "I didn't know Jedi hired out as executioners," so the clone had recognized Anakin for what he was, and was not impressed.

"I didn't come here to kill anyone," Anakin replied, "I just need to find someone."

"Well you've found us. Which is your good fortune," someone in the dark seemed to find this remark very funny and was hard pressed not to laugh, though Anakin couldn't see why, "You could just as easily have found one of them."

Anakin noticed a dark shape in the grass. He'd noticed it before, but now it gained new significance. It was a body. Of a clone, if he wasn't mistaken, though it was oddly dark. Maybe a trick of the light.

"They'd have killed you on the spot," the owner of the voice didn't seem all that certain that he didn't harbor the same intention somewhere inside.

The mood of the squad (Anakin had managed to do a count by now) was turning darker. Anakin knew he had to say something, or else lose their favor. And, with each passing second, he had less desire to do battle with this bunch. He could win, he was confident of that (perhaps overly so), but he didn't want to hurt them. They did not radiate fear or anger, only a single, unifying desire. To survive. That desire did not appear to be rooted in emotion, maybe it was in reason, but Anakin expected it went deeper.

"Do you know anyone named 'Phisher'?" Anakin asked, "I was sent here by Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi to find him. My name is Anakin Skywalker."

"You know him?" the speaker asked of another, intending his voice to be too quiet to hear, but Anakin caught it, though he missed the reply.

The speaker's demeanor shifted abruptly. He turned to his companion and nodded. The second clone jogged away, angling towards where Anakin guessed the sniper to be. The animal followed at his heels, chirping all the way.

"PFC Volk of _Fortune Actual_ ," the speaker came to attention, "at your service, sir."

Anakin got the impression that this was not an easy speech for the one called 'Volk'. He did not seem content to be under new authority, but recognized his position well enough. From the darkness came a clone with a gash in the side of his helmet. No, not a clone.

"I'm the one you're looking for, General Skywalker. Obi-Wan has told me much about you."

Anakin relaxed and walked towards the airship, where the lighting would be better. Phisher fell in step beside him. Behind, he sensed Volk gathering the squad around him, and noticed that they regarded Rex and Bean with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Ahsoka they ignored completely.

"We have a medic among us," Phisher said, nodding towards Rex, "if that one needs him."

Rex stiffened inwardly, but gave no outward sign of distress. He did not want to be handled by these miscreants. His first impression of them had not been at all favorable, and now they were looking at him more like he was an exhibit in a zoo than a captain in the GAR. They regarded him more with interest than respect, and he didn't much care for it. The one called Volk eyed him much like an equal, something which a PFC had no right to do.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Anakin asked, "I was told you were at a base on the other side of the mountains. I only started here because it was the only sign of activity."

"That is a long story," Phisher replied, "Firstly though, I'd like to know something."

"And what is that?"

"Are you the one that called this ship off when it tried to fry us earlier?"

"Actually no," Anakin said, "I hadn't even arrived yet. I would have come sooner but-"

"Yes, I know. There's a war on. So Obi-Wan told me when he talked me into this," Phisher removed his helmet to reveal blue eyes and fair skin, as well as a healing scar on the side of his face, "He'd have looked into it himself, stealthy like, but he had other responsibilities. By the way, what happened? One minute I'm sneaking around, trying to get into places where I'm not wanted, the next somebody's dropping bombs on my head."

"I tried to find out about that," Anakin answered slowly, "But, while the orders were official, whoever issued them covered their tracks expertly. I couldn't find where they originated. It's obvious why the attack took place. Someone must have guessed the Jedi had become suspicious."

"That's somebody with a lot of political firepower," Phisher said, "I suspected as much. I went over the records for this place before I arrived. I never could figure out who was in charge of the operation."

"If there was an operation," Anakin replied, "From the sky, it looks like every building was destroyed, and any evidence went with them."

"Not quite," Phisher said, "I've had plenty of time to put the puzzle together. Ah, here comes our fragment of evidence now."

Anakin looked up to see a limping clone being helped by the one with the pet animal. He was moderately surprised to find that the sniper was badly injured. He hadn't picked that up from a distance.

"I thought you were staying behind, Tavis," Phisher called.

"You're welcome," the other grunted, as his companion assisted him in sitting on the floor of the airship.

"General Skywalker, I'd like you to meet Corporal Tavis."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Tavis growled, not sparing Anakin a glance.

He was less unfriendly and more exhausted and in pain, so Anakin decided to let him alone.

"I wasn't sure at first. I'm not certain when it became obvious, but it is now. Putting pieces together is what I do for a living," Phisher stated, with not a breath of the braggart in his voice, "For awhile I thought they were looking for a way to poison the clones, but that didn't make any kind of sense. And then I realized Tavis had breathed whatever they'd concocted. Not sure how much, but it was enough to give me a clue as to what they were doing."

"What are you on about now?" Tavis looked up at Phisher, seeming annoyed and interested at the same time, but Phisher chose to ignore him for the moment.

"General Skywalker, the scientists here weren't trying to kill the clones, though I've no doubt that it would have been the end result. No. They were trying to create, in a lab, the powers of the Jedi."

"Come again?"

"You don't need me to explain why," Phisher said, "It's obvious, if you think about it. An absolutely obedient army, with the power of Jedi at its core. Whoever commanded such an army could not be opposed. They'd have the power of a God at their fingertips."

"You can't just... manufacture Jedi," Anakin protested, "That's insane."

"Maybe not. But they tried. Tavis, that's why you get feelings you can't explain."

"Don't patronize me," Tavis snapped.

"Then don't pretend to be an idiot," Phisher shot back, seeming to momentarily forget himself and Anakin, "How do you think you knew we were in trouble?"

"You're _always_ in trouble," Tavis replied.

"Enough," Anakin interrupted, "Will one of you kindly explain what you're talking about."

"We made it to a compound North of here," Phisher explained, "then Garm spotted this ship and we headed for it. Except Tavis. He stayed behind. And then showed up here just in time to give those boys in black Hell."

"I got tired of waiting," Tavis corrected him.

"So you dragged your sorry ass all the way here out of boredom? I don't believe that," Phisher said.

"Wait, hold on. You're suggesting that this clone here-"

"Tavis," Phisher supplied.

"-Tavis... has the abilities of a Jedi?"

"Of course not," Phisher scoffed, "That would be lunacy. No, I'm saying he has a hint of such power. But, at the same time, it's been killing him."

Anakin had noticed the clone was badly hurt, now he sensed a different pain, and realized Phisher was right, about the clone's being sick at least.

"Whatever they accomplished, they took their research notes with them. Or else completely destroyed them," Phisher said, "they left before the first bomb hit. Must've gotten wind that the Jedi were suspicious. I think those bombs may have been meant for me. Like maybe they knew there was a spy, but not who or where. They did a rubbish job of it though."

"What do you mean?"

"If somebody who knew the schedules wanted us all dead, they'd wait for the lunch hour, when everybody's in the same room except for a day watch, which is easily disposed of from the air. Like maybe they didn't consult the residents before they ordered the hit."

"They meant to destroy everything, including the scientists."

"Looks that way. But the scientists realized it and got out while the getting was good. Anyway, that's my best theory. I've got others, if you'd like to hear them."

"Maybe later," Anakin said, "Right now, I think we should get back to the ship, and get the wounded taken care of. We can worry about the past later."

"You sure you want to do that?" Tavis asked, addressing Anakin for the first time.

"What?"

"We were sent to Onithera because we weren't good enough for your war. Now I'm not so sure your war is good enough for us. In any case, we have our orders, only now we understand them. Our orders, General, were to disappear."

"Well, now your orders are to come with me."

Tavis seemed to think that over for a long moment, as though weighing two things which were very nearly identical. At last, he sighed and nodded his acceptance.

"As you say, sir," then he raised his voice so that the others could hear him, " _Fortune_! _Actual_! Load up! Mission's over, and we're getting off this rock."


	33. No Future

Once aboard the ship orbiting Onitheran, the clones of _Fortune Actual_ were debriefed. It was a short debriefing. Reduced to the relevant points, their incredible journey was nothing more than a short footnote, stuffed under the heading of the planet Onithera. Militarily, they had learned a few things, and information they had about the planet and its inhabitants would be filed away. But their personal experiences were of little interest to the GAR, and their opinions of various incidents were even less so.

Moreover, they kept many things to themselves. Nobody noticed, because nobody much cared about the time between leaving their ruined post and arriving at another, equally destroyed compound. Not one of them made mention of Mother's deposition, and little could be said about his demise because the attack of the mother Onitheran had been so sudden and the events that followed had been chaotic. They said nothing of the battle for leadership between Tavis and Volk, and authorities took it for granted that Tavis was in charge due to his rank as corporal and head of fireteam one.

Either Anakin or Rex was present for each of the debriefings, but neither of them actually participated or asked any questions, merely stood in the background, evaluating the clones' responses from a completely different standpoint. Rex had noted a concerning behavior among the clones of _Fortune Actual_ , and had commented on it to Anakin. Anakin had failed to notice it only because it was not a problem for himself or any of the people he interacted with.

The clones were distrustful, and also rather indifferent to any figures of authority outside of their own group. Oh, they behaved well enough, didn't cause any trouble, but they followed instruction sullenly, and didn't offer information freely; they had to be asked, then they would answer or (most alarming) evade. They had little regard for Anakin's authority, and none at all for Rex's.

That they were cooperative was only a sign that, for the moment, they wanted the same things as those over them. But Rex feared that, the minute their goals differed, they would see a completely different side of _Fortune Actual_.

"They're not GAR troopers anymore... honestly, I don't know what they are," Rex said.

Anakin believed him, and it did not take him long to see what Rex had noticed immediately. Like dogs left on the streets, they had gone wild. They neither feared nor respected people, maintaining a psychological distance to protect themselves, obeying when it was obviously to their benefit, but only because it was to their benefit, neither servant nor master, present only because it was in their interest to be so. They had formed a pack, and recognized others with detachment or even aggression (on the day they arrived, a fight had broken out in one of the bunk rooms. _Fortune Actual_ had claimed the space and wouldn't allow any other clones into the area, a rule they enforced with violence. It was allowed to slide only because it was over by the time a captain arrived, and nobody wanted to talk about it. Since then, clones bunking near the squad kept a healthy two bunk space between themselves and _Fortune_ ).

Worse still, their leader had been removed to the hospital area of the ship, leaving them with Volk in charge. And Volk, Anakin realized at once, was every bit the aggressor. He needed a strong hand to keep him in line, but also required an understanding one. Anybody who tried to intimidate him into working for them was liable to find themselves mopping the floor with their face.

The clones were not deserters, but they might well become such, or something far worse. Left unchecked, they were bound to disobey orders or even assault a superior officer. These inexcusable offenses would lead to their demise (quite literally). They had already won two battles aboard.

It was pointed out that clone troopers were not allowed to have pets. Theran, the Onitheran chick that followed at Private Caden's heels, was at first considered a pet. Caden made strong argument that Theran was, in fact, a fully functional member of his fireteam, and cited incidents where Theran had hunted, scouted, and also fought at Caden's command. When a lieutenant challenged this, Caden agreed to run a drill with Theran, to prove the creature's value. The chick proved to have abilities on par with a cadet who'd had twice the training time.

The second argument was harder. It was called into question whether or not Theran should be taken away from his home planet. Caden pointed out (quite correctly) that everyone on board the ship, especially those who were not clones, had been taken from their homes. Or, more accurately, they had left willingly. Nobody had forced Theran onto the airship, he'd just up and joined them. Furthermore, Caden claimed that Onithera herself had bid the chick goodbye. Theran would have died without a mother. His own home planet had decreed that he should not live there, should not hunt or breed, that his genetic line ended with him. Nothing was lost by taking Theran away.

It took more than one conversation, but that was the essence of Caden's victory.

Caden was almost more of a problem than Volk. Volk was ruled by instinct, and that made him a poor negotiator. But Caden, when he put his mind to it, could talk anyone into or out of anything. Worse, Caden had a fierce sense of responsibility to his fireteam. If any of them entered a fight, he was right there with them. If any of them was accused of something, you could bet Caden would come to their defense instantly. This quality was good in small doses, but when it brought Caden into direct conflict with the sergeant who'd been placed in temporary charge of _Fortune Actual_ , the results were explosive.

"What do you do with clones like that?" Ahsoka had asked of Anakin, but he declined to answer.

This sort of thing was not unheard of. But there wasn't a place to put psychologically unsound clones. They were dangerous, to themselves and those around them. Besides, there was a war on, and people had better things to do than goosestep around unpredictable clones who would never see battle again because they could not be trusted on the field.

But Anakin didn't want to see them destroyed, any more than he'd wanted Bean done away with. In order to save Bean, Anakin had been forced to point out that Bean had never disobeyed orders before, had shown bravery while on Onithera and sound judgment in not killing _Fortune Actual_. The only problem with that defense was the squad itself. They were so unruly that they were no longer an asset. And Phisher had found out so little that it was hardly worth it to go down and retrieve him. Anakin had decided to claim Bean for himself, to keep him on as a pilot for his own troops.

Could he do the same thing with _Fortune Actual_?

Only if they could learn to be useful again. They had to acknowledge the chain of command before they could be trusted, had to learn to work with those outside their own unit. They had to rediscover the innate trust they normally had in the judgment of their superiors. That was a tall order.

Especially as it had to be done quickly, or else not at all. They didn't have the time or resources to devote to babysitting grown clones. And, the longer they went unchecked, the more likely it was that they would do something that they couldn't come back from.

"Rex," Anakin said, "I want you to reeducate these clones. By the time we meet up with Obi-Wan, I want them in fighting shape. And I mean fighting something _besides_ us."

Rex hesitated. Anakin could see in his eyes that Rex didn't hold much hope for succeeding. But Anakin hadn't asked if he could, he had given an order. He knew Rex would follow it. Even if it was impossible, Rex would give it his all. And that's what it would take to bring _Fortune Actual_ back from the edge. Assuming that it could be done at all. Anakin made it an order because he knew Rex thought it was an impossible request. If Anakin showed the slightest doubt, Rex might respond to that without meaning to. Anakin needed to show absolute confidence in Rex's ability to do as ordered.

"You think that's possible, sir?" Rex asked finally.

"I know it is," Anakin lied.

Rex, for his part, believed him.

Being endowed with perhaps more than his share of wisdom, Rex knew he couldn't take the squad all together. They didn't especially need drills. They already understood how to work, and why cooperation and quick responsiveness to their leader was important. The problem was that they were too much of a good thing, a whole unto themselves, so much so that they rejected all outside authority. Experiencing independence and abandonment had made them that much less receptive to anybody outside their group. Rex saw, processed and understood this, along with all of its implications.

And too, he knew Tavis was not the one he must target first. Frankly, he wasn't sure how Tavis had maintained leadership over this pack of wild dogs, because he only ever showed complacency. Someone told him to go here or there, and that's what he did, with no trace of animosity or resistance.

His record showed him to be an adept, if rather lethargic, trooper with a reasonable amount of sense (you didn't become leader of a fireteam without that, nor did you get promoted to anything above private) and impressive amount of patience and natural talent (you didn't get to being a sniper without those attributes). But the problem was not Tavis. Hell, he hadn't been near the squad since coming aboard, except for when they visited to see how he was getting on.

The question then, was which of the fireteam leaders was the bigger problem.

Caden was mouthy and overly confident, but it was quiet, calculating Volk who held sway over the squad. When he got up to leave the mess hall, the others followed. If they finished before him, they did not move. If he decided they were hitting the sack early, he didn't have to push, they would just follow. He took lead to practice areas, and led sparing matches between his men. Most telling of all, the squad closed ranks around him, the unit defending its "brain" so to speak.

With a personality like Volk, Rex knew that he must earn respect before trust could be placed in his leadership. Some personalities had to trust you before they'd follow you, but Volk must be taken out of the position of unquestioned authority before he would even begin considering Rex as anything.

He had looked on Rex as an equal the night they'd met, but he must now see Rex as a leader.

Volk had always had a streak of independence, a natural calm aloofness that inspired confidence and following in others. He also tended to claim any area he walked into merely with his movement. With a look, he conveyed whether or not you were welcome in the space he had just entered as if he owned it. This was not an arrogant expression or swagger, in fact it was exactly the sort of energy a leader needed to project, especially in a group as prone to violence, aggression and possessive tendency as _Fortune Actual_. You had to be something special, or else they would disown you.

There was only one clone outside their ranks that they suffered to share space with, and that was Bean. Bean had the right level of confidence for them, he was on the right wavelength. Having been jostled and bullied for most of his life, Bean had developed a thick skin and a fiery assertiveness of his own. He had proven himself worthwhile, and nobody could tell him differently.

Still, he was out of his element with this bunch, who could be lazing passively one instant, and burst into ferocious violence in the next, and then drop the whole matter just as quickly. Sometimes they appeared to be playing, others showed that they were out for blood. Sometimes there seemed to be a word exchanged, a snap, an intolerable insult, and they'd be at it. Others, they just seemed to be looking at each other wrong, or maybe one woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

There were no injuries in these scuffles (nothing more than bruising, anyway), and there seemed to be no competition for rank among them. Merely disagreements. But a disagreement was normally just words. Only this bunch settled things with blows. It was dangerous to be a part of, and to be around. One mistake and a bone could be broken, or a head bashed in. Professionally trained killers were less likely to kill accidentally, except when they were exercising that training. Training that could all too easily override their caution.

Bean was flattened by every one of them, and gained a bottom rank. But he obtained grudging membership with the band, something Rex found unsettling. Bean had nobody else, the other clones knew what he'd done, and shunned him. A clone without the companionship of his own kind is in a sad state; clones are meant to be cooperative fighters, not loners. At the very least, they worked in pairs. Why _Fortune Actual_ accepted him was just as obvious. He'd saved their lives in refusing to kill them, in turn accepting that his own life would be forfeit. They flattened him, but tolerated him at their table, and did not either move to avoid him or chase him out of exercise and drill areas.

The issue was that Bean did not belong with the squad. He didn't belong to it, and it was presently a bad influence on him, fostering both defiance and disrespect, as well as violence among his own kind.

There was another reason Bean was accepted. And that was Garm. Private Garm was the guardian at the gate of entrance. If he didn't like you, then he wouldn't even bother to wait for the opinions of the others. It was Volk who projected welcome or unwelcome, but it was Garm who would go for you if you didn't get out of the way fast enough.

Garm's remark about Bean was "What a cute little guy. Can we keep him?"

Volk was leader, but he was more likely to accept your presence than Garm. He was also less likely to participate in violence. Like Bean, Volk clearly felt he had proven his worth, and did not need to do so again by chasing away the riffraff. With a look, he could tell someone they were unwelcome in his domain (which was wherever he happened to be), and Garm had only to rise in challenge.

The ship's clones were not interested in violence amongst themselves, and felt edgy around this unkempt band of strangers in their midst. They felt threatened, but training forbade them to do anything about it, so they generally moved off without complaint. That was bad too.

It was a sorry situation when a sergeant can be scared off by a bunch of privates. Unacceptable. Degrading. And, again, extremely dangerous. If your sergeant can be cowed by a private, how can you trust in him to stand with you against clankers? Bad news for everybody.

And then there was Damyu. Of the squad, he alone was friendly, though inquisitive might be a better term. He alone would venture forth from the squad's protection to get acquainted with the guys at the next table over. Naturally curious, he roamed the ship where he was allowed and asked questions of everyone about anything and everything. He was a damned nuisance, but harmless. By himself.

But Damyu was like most of his kind. Impressionable, and inclined to mimic. And his idol was clearly Volk. Since it was clear Garm had Volk's favor, Damyu would imitate Garm. He was becoming more aggressive, and harder to control. An incident would not be long in coming.

Rex didn't have to be told how high the stakes were. If he couldn't reform these delinquents inside of a week, there would be no future for them. And they had to be completely reformed, no halfway about it. They must be reliable and trustworthy, or else the GAR could not keep them around. The risk was too great. Any single battle won or lost made a difference, any victory brought them that much closer to winning, and any loss brought them nearer to total failure.

This squad, as it stood now, could not be relied upon to help them achieve victory. The squad would do what it wanted, what it considered best for itself. It clearly gave no thought to anyone else. And that was no way for a clone to behave. A clone had to see himself as a single part of a larger whole, completely expendable if that was what it took to ensure the whole survived.

The needs of the many, and all that.

The squad had forgotten that, or maybe they'd never known it to begin with. Looking over their records, it was a sure thing that they'd never been decent soldiers, every one of them was a loser one way or another. Lazy, incompetent, too dominant of nature, too timid, too this, that or the other. But it didn't matter. Rex had to reform them, to a state superior to what they had been. He had his orders, and there was no choice about it. Besides, if he failed, the squad did too.

If they failed, there would be no future for _Fortune Actual_.


	34. A Brush with Death

Volk hadn't especially noticed that he was being overly intimidating towards other clones. He never had and, chances were, he never would. But he had learned to move in a certain way on Onithera, convey a certain attitude. From the first, he had what it took to drive off the lizards with little more than body language. It wasn't bluffing, so much as communicating on a different level.

It had been his own excessive efforts and the chaotic behaviors of those around him that had kept the lizards coming back. He'd never thought about it on a conscious level, but he had then and there begun to modify his behavior in order to end fights before they began, with him taking the role of victor. Now he had become quite relaxed into the role of permanent Alpha. He didn't feel either threatened or particularly interested when Captain Rex entered the exercise area.

Theran, climbing on a piece of equipment, let out a stout warning yip. He'd become less exclusive to Caden since their arrival, suddenly the others weren't so strange to him. He'd adjusted himself quite happily, though it was obvious he missed digging tunnels.

Rex ignored Theran. And that got Volk's attention. Nobody ignored Theran, especially when he was perched up high. He made those on board nervous, they were shy about approaching him or walking under him. As well they might be, for Theran was not above leaping down on his victims. Theran had gotten bigger, his vocalizations more menacing. And it had become obvious that he was attempting speech. Thus far, the only clearly distinguishable word he said was 'cade'.

Rex was moving like somebody who wanted to pick a fight. And Volk was only too happy to oblige.

Rex had meant to initiate a sparring match, knowing full well that it would escalate into a knockdown-drag-out fight. He hadn't expected Volk to read his intentions so clearly so immediately. Nor had he anticipated Volk's total disregard for the rule about striking superior officers. Without the "protection" of it being a sparring match, any action Volk took against Rex was in direct violation of GAR regulations. Volk spurned that protection, and didn't wait for Rex to say a word.

Volk rose so quickly, with such eagerness for violence that Rex almost obeyed his first instinct, which told him to back away, to get out of there. But that was the one thing he knew he must not do. He knew a thing or two about handling subordinates, both earning their respect and inspiring confidence in them. Both were essential in the face of the enemy. To run, or to back down in any way, would be to put Volk in the position of authority. And Volk did not look like one who relinquished control readily.

Volk hit like a ton of bricks, but Rex was ready for him and threw him. Volk landed on his feet, facing Rex, evaluating, considering options and what he'd learned. From his high perch, Theran issued out a low growl, one Rex knew was meant to distract and intimidate him.

Rex kept his gaze on Volk, who in turn paid him the same attention. Volk didn't circle, not really. He started a circle, and then rushed in and took Rex head on. This time Rex wasn't able to throw him over his shoulder so easily. And, when he did, Volk had a ready counter, and they both wound up on the ground.

Rex never got the chance to get up. The squad was all over him before he could blink. It was one thing to be outnumbered, and quite another to be flat on your back as well. Rex's last thought was that he was glad nobody was there to see it. Either the attack, or him failing to meet it.

He awoke some time later, still lying on the floor, but now by himself. He sat up tentatively, and was surprised to find that he was mostly not hurt. His jaw where one of them had clipped him and turned out the lights was sore. He felt pretty beat up, but nothing was broken. He found it interesting that not one of them had gone for his wounded shoulder, even though that would have been the surest, fastest way to incapacitate him. They'd merely waited for Volk to drop him, and then held him there with sheer weight of numbers until one got through his defenses and knocked him cold.

He'd never stood a chance.

But it hadn't been a total failure. He'd learned something. The group might seem overly aggressive, violent and unruly, but they _did_ have boundaries. They hadn't interfered at first, and Rex wasn't sure if that was for their own protection, or if they'd engaged when it looked like Rex might be able to take Volk. They hadn't hurt him more than necessary to subdue him. And, afterward, they let him alone. They could just as easily have been completely out of control and killed him.

They had the ability. But they also had the restraint. Yet Volk's disinclination to wait for an invitation to attack said that they were not concerned about getting into trouble. These were their rules, not the GAR's. They were similar, but not the same. Rex needed a way to get their attention, and to encourage them to conform. A second fight with Volk, while not out of the question, didn't seem like the wise thing to do. Getting Volk alone wouldn't do any good, and the group wouldn't see their leader defeated publicly. That left Rex in the uncomfortable position of looking for a way besides force.

Rex decided that maybe he was going about this all wrong. While most of the squad ran in a pack, one of them was isolated much of the time. Alone, he might be reasoned with. And besides, he was the true leader, though Rex was having a harder and harder time imagining what sort of personality it would take to control Volk as he was now.

Nobody had ever told Rex how to interact with an untrained dog. Put in context, clones were trained to be quick and obedient from early in their lives on into whenever it was they became useful. By the time Rex got hold of them, these "dogs" were already perfectly behaved. If anything, it was his job to encourage a little more free thinking. Had anyone bothered to show him, even once, how to deal with unruly dogs, Rex would have been able to file that experience away for future reference and employ it here. But nobody had. Rex was thus forced to reinvent the wheel when it came to training.

And these "dogs" weren't pups. They were grown, set in their ways, and extremely dangerous when provoked. Rex suspected there'd be no second chance for him if the pack went after him again.

Rex didn't like the hospital wing. Medical droids gave him the creeps. If he'd ever bothered to think about it, he'd probably have decided it was because they resembled the droids he'd been trained to loath his entire life. But he'd never thought about it, merely accepted it as a matter of course. He didn't like being in the hospital wing, didn't like medical droids, and shared that dislike with all of his brothers. There wasn't a clone in the army who enjoyed spending time recuperating.

Rex hadn't been here since his shoulder was patched. And he'd never really met Tavis. The leader of _Fortune Actual_ hadn't ever approached him on the planet, and had been held in the hospital wing for treatment and testing (though Rex knew nothing of that). They'd seen each other face to face only briefly, and no words had passed between them. All Rex knew of Tavis lay in reports and records.

Sitting up in a bed, Tavis did the closest thing to coming to attention that he could manage. But he didn't wait for Rex's permission to relax. It was like a half-forgotten ritual that didn't really mean anything. Rex let it pass. As clones went, Rex was almost intolerably informal, demanding respect once he'd earned it, but not before, never based simply on rank. Experience was his idol more than anything, and he felt it counted for more than any official title. Tavis, he knew, had experience enough to be worthy of respect.

"You were on Onithera," Tavis said, "Captain something or other... I don't think I caught your name?"

Rex felt irritation rise unbidden. The way Tavis looked at him, Rex was sure Tavis knew his name. In fact, Tavis gave off the impression by his tone of voice that he knew Rex's history intimately. Any good squad leader would have gotten hold of Rex's file, once he found his squad under Rex's authority, which Tavis' squad was (temporarily and officially, anyway). The medical droids could trap your body, but they couldn't trap your mind too. Tavis had the same access as any average soldier.

But Rex knew he was being scrutinized. Tested. What he didn't know, was what Tavis wanted or expected. It was a good thing he didn't much care. If Tavis didn't like him how he was, that was too bad. Rex didn't answer to him, and had entirely too much pride to alter his behavior to win affections. Not for another clone, anyway.

"Name's Rex," he said, in a tone that said ' _and I bet you already knew that too. Don't test me, kid.'_

Tavis looked moderately amused, and there was a gentle kindness to his eyes that Rex found surprising. Gentleness and kindness didn't come to mind when Rex thought of _Fortune Actual_. Hell, it didn't come to mind when he thought of the Grand Army of the Republic. There was a knowing glint there too. Like Tavis knew exactly what had happened to Rex when he confronted Volk, as if he'd been there himself.

"And what brings you to this little corner of Hell?" Tavis asked, though he sounded like he knew the answer already, but wanted to hear it in Rex's own words.

"We need to talk about your squad," Rex said, evading and answering the question at the same time, " _Fortune Actual_ is completely out of control. They're going to get into trouble if they don't simmer down and get in line."

He expected Tavis to deny it. Or to become angry. Or confused. Or something. But Tavis just tilted his head, and his eyes looked more at the bruise forming along Rex's jawline than his face.

"Was it Garm who hit you?" he inquired, "or Caden?"

Rex hadn't expected that question. Nor did he have an answer. He was shocked to realize that. Someone had gotten close enough to land a solid punch, and he didn't even know which one it was. He knew that he should have clear memory of each impact, who had done what when. It was his job and training. But they were so damn fast, and moved like a swarm of insects, only more coordinated.

"You know what it means to assault a superior officer, don't you?" Rex asked, deciding that it was in his best interest that Tavis not find out he hadn't a clue who hit him.

"Of course," Tavis replied evenly, "But tell me, what's superior about you?"

It was exactly what Rex would have said were the roles reversed. Superior had two distinct meanings, one being a term for one of higher rank, and the other being someone literally best suited to something.

"I'm talking about regulations, not qualifications," Rex growled.

He didn't like being put in the position he was in, and didn't like that Tavis was so unruffled about it. He didn't like that he'd made a mistake, didn't like that he'd lost the fight, and he especially didn't care for how Tavis looked at him like he was a child who needed the world explained to him.

He took a breath to calm himself, and then proceeded to explain how the squad was acting out, why it was a problem and how their behavior was affecting their relations with others of their kind, and where that sort of attitude would land them. He needed Tavis to understand how serious it was. At the last, he explained his own position, that he was in charge but the squad didn't respect him. Reluctantly, he described the incident from earlier, but left out what he had intended to happen as that seemed obvious.

Tavis sighed deeply and looked serious and thoughtful for a lengthy few seconds.

"Do you know where you went wrong?" he asked eventually.

"I don't understand," Rex said, "The problem is with the squad, not me."

"If I were allowed freedom to move, this wouldn't be an issue. As their leader, it is my right and responsibility to make them behave. But I'm stuck here. I could talk to them all I like, but it won't make any difference. You have to understand how Volk's mind works. He is interested only in survival. That is his one and only objective. He is slow to adapt, his actions are based on the instinct to survive, guided by what experience has taught him."

"So?" Rex didn't get it, wasn't that how all clones were?

"He isn't trying to drive a wedge between the squad and others. All he wants is to stop a fight before it happens, prevent the squad from being challenged in order to avoid death and injury. But the minimum effort it takes to make an Onitheran keep its distance is enough to make the clones here feel threatened. And it is a threat. 'You make trouble, and I'll kill you'. But that's all. It's not meant as a challenge. You want to know why they accept Bean? It's because he doesn't make trouble, but he's also not afraid of them. You show weakness or fear, the squad will be all over you. Same as any."

Rex knew that was correct. You had to appear confident in front of men, or else they would become afraid, full of doubt, or else they'd turn on you. That much he understood.

"Your mistake was that you went in to challenge Volk, and then you let him win."

" _Let_ him win? They ganged up on me!" Rex protested.

"Volk had already won. You thought to fight Volk, beat each other senseless and eventually come out on top. You can't do that with Volk. You throw him, you pin him, you hold him there until he surrenders. The second you let him up, you had already lost. And, when he threw you, then it was over. You're alive now for only one reason."

"And that is?"

"You bled on Onithera. You went into the darkness, and you survived. That makes you our brother."

Rex hadn't realized just how close he'd come to losing his life. Nor had he realized that the squad held him in any status above that of dirt. In a strange way, it made sense. But it gave him no ideas about how to improve his relations with the squad.

"It was easier for me," Tavis said, "All I had to do was defend my position. You failed at that, and now the option is closed to you. You let the squad overwhelm you and, in so doing, lost their respect."

 _They had respect?_ Rex wondered but didn't ask.

"So what do I do?" Rex asked, the question like salt on his already wounded pride.

"You have to start with the guardian at the gate. That's Garm, and I've little doubt that he was the one who hit you. The others might fight for the sake of it, Garm will end a fight as soon as it begins. He will drop you in a second if he perceives you as a threat. And it is through him that you must gain admittance into the group. Only then will you be able to begin getting them to listen to you."

Rex sighed. Because of his mistake, this was evidently going to be a longer process than it might otherwise have been. He was now going to have to go about it the hard way. Fortunately, it seemed that Tavis understood the danger, and was with him and willing to help.

"Always remember that Volk only wants what is best for the squad. His goal is actually the same as yours, but he doesn't know that the way to survive on Onithera is not the way to do it here. Volk was sent to Onithera because nobody ever bothered to convince him that the GAR's way was best. Some brilliant mind looked at him and decided he was too independent to be reliable. Independence isn't a drawback, Captain. It is a strength. But _only_ if you know how to use it."

That Rex could also understand. And he realized something Tavis didn't actually say outloud, and may not even have been aware of. Rex's biggest mistake was coming at Volk like an enemy to be thrashed, when he really wanted - _needed_ \- Volk to be his ally.


	35. First Steps

If Tavis was right (and Rex had to assume that he was), Volk didn't really want to fight. In fact, the way Tavis explained it, it seemed probable that Volk didn't even want the leadership position at all. One had to admire his sense of duty then, for it would be only too easy to let himself be overwhelmed by what to him had become strange and always been incomprehensible and allow someone else to assume the role of leader. But Volk would not permit an unqualified person to take over his duties, he would not allow anyone he did not trust and respect to have control over those he was responsible for.

Even in accepting Rex's unspoken challenge, Volk had actually been conveying that he had respect for Rex. That he was willing to let Rex take control, if only Rex knew how. That sure hadn't been what it felt like but, upon reflection, Rex decided that was probably what it had been. And Rex had muffed it.

Tavis recommended that Rex approach Garm when Volk wasn't around. Rex caught on quickly. Rex understood being tense in an unfamiliar area, and had only to recall the number of times he'd said aloud that he didn't like a location to get what Volk was feeling. Volk wasn't projecting that to everybody, but observant Garm knew his leader wasn't comfortable, and felt threatened by everything around him. Garm responded to that, and became overly protective, going after anything and everything that got too close for the comfort of his leader.

But finding Garm when Volk wasn't there was no easy feat. Garm, as described by Tavis, stayed with the group always, and was on guard even without Volk there. Rex eventually decided that he would have to get Garm to come to him. He had one advantage over a wild animal trainer, and that was that his "animals" could speak the same words he could, and understand them as well.

Rex sent word through a nonthreatening private that he wanted to see Garm, and arranged for the store room to be empty of personnel at the specified time. It seemed like the only way to get Garm alone. Rex spent an uneasy ten minutes waiting to see if Garm would even show.

He did. And was a completely different character from the one Rex had read about. He knew why too. Garm had nothing to defend in the area, nobody was nervous or threatened. He could not return to the others until Rex dismissed him, and so dropped them from mind.

"Reporting as ordered, Captain," Garm stood at a fierce kind of attention, and waited for Rex to tell him to be at ease before relaxing. He did so almost completely.

Rex was surprised. This was the same one who'd blindsided him during the fight with Volk? He sure didn't act as though he had any intention of having a go at Rex, nor any interest in fighting at all.

"We're going to move these crates from one side of the room to the other," Rex said.

He didn't qualify the statement by saying that it needed to be done, why it ought to be done, or even that it was his job and he'd picked Garm specially to help him. Ideally, none of that would be necessary. Garm was a trooper, and they didn't ask why something had to be done. They did it without any question. Rex hoped that Garm would do just that.

And he did. Garm's one fault was his guarding behavior. It was too intense, too focused, too aggressive. He recognized no friend from foe. If you were on one side of the imaginary line, he would protect you to his death. On the other, you were the enemy, to be killed at the earliest opportunity. He did not recognize GAR troopers from droids in this equation. Or at least, that had been true previously. Onithera may have changed that. Rex didn't know, and he didn't care much.

"I guess we better get started then," Garm said, and cheerfully set to work.

There was no actual reason for moving the loaded crates. It was an arbitrary task that could just as easily have gone undone or been performed by droids. But Garm didn't point it out, nor act as though the menial labor was insulting. He threw his weight into it and moved in tandem with Rex. Rex picked up a crate, Garm did the same, and followed him across the room.

He didn't talk much, spoke only when a question was posed to him (and even then the answer was short), but he didn't leave Rex with the impression that he was being standoffish, merely that he was one of those quiet types who kept his thoughts to himself for the most part.

Even though he'd been in the position to tear Rex apart that morning, this evening he showed no inclination towards it, and gave absolutely no sign he even remembered such an event. He hadn't attacked Rex as a means of seeking control, but only to protect Volk. The others must have followed him into it, responding to his assertiveness in the attack.

When they had finished, Garm waited to be dismissed, but Rex said he wanted a word with Volk. Only then did Garm tense, and then only fractionally. Willingly, if reluctantly, he walked with Rex to where the rest of _Fortune Actual_ was preparing to bed down for the night.

It wasn't easy for Rex to maintain an air of relaxation. Not when he knew the squad could go for him in a second, not remembering that they'd already done it recently. But he managed, and the squad regarded him with cool indifference (even Theran hissed once, and then turned away to continue "nesting" on one of the cots) and Volk stepped away from the others when asked.

"What do you want?" Volk demanded.

It wasn't a proper show of respect. A subordinate waited to be told, he didn't demand to be told. But at least Volk wasn't openly showing hostility. _One step at a time_ , Rex told himself calmly.

"You fight well," Rex said, "And your men respect you. Don't think it's gone unnoticed."

He turned and left before Volk could respond, hoping it didn't look as though he was fleeing. It was an idiotic thing to say, or so it felt, but he'd needed an excuse to follow Garm into the midst of the squad. He'd done that, and they had not reacted negatively to his presence. It was good.

 _But not enough. Not nearly enough._ He thought to himself.

They had a million miles to go, and no time to do it in. But, no matter how urgent it was that they be retrained quickly, it was impossible to push them faster than they were able to go. To even try would be to undo what he'd already succeeded in doing. At the very least, Rex had taught himself that the squad had not thought of him as an enemy, and still didn't.

They were wary and without respect, but they had not yet made a final decision about how they were going to interact with him. That was something. Certainly more than Rex believed he would accomplish when he had gone to speak with Tavis.

And still, no matter how impossible it seemed, he knew he had to succeed. Anakin had told him what to do, and do it he must, no matter how hard it was or how much he didn't want to. He wished he could just say that to the squad. But he knew, from experience and talking to Tavis, that it wouldn't work. He couldn't just come in and boss them around, they wouldn't stand for it. He had to work to get to that point. He had his foot in the door now, he only had to take the next step.

Rex didn't visit Tavis again that day. He didn't need to. Aimed in the right direction, Rex was ready to begin learning for himself. He had always been a keen observer, but he also liked to learn on his own, rather than having things explained and recited to him. This inclination to go out and find answers for himself was part of how he'd made captain. Unlike those in _Fortune Actual_ , Rex had none of the weakness of becoming overly possessive, dominant or too independent to accept orders.

In fact, Rex was an extremely rare breed, being both what was intended when growing and training a clone, and what was desperately needed on the battlefield. Finding either was amazing, finding both in one package was very rare and highly sought after. An exceptional follower and confident leader, there were few things in his world that Rex didn't know how to manage. He was no teacher, not yet anyway, but he could learn, and was _willing_ to learn as well.

In the morning, Rex tested the set boundary. Though he typically took his meals in the company of other captains (a habit long established from his training days, when you ate with cadets of similar grade and quality to yourself by orders), today he took a seat at the table with _Fortune Actual_.

At his approach, Garm and Bean each moved to the side, giving him space to sit between them. Rex knew he had his foothold now. Garm would let him past the "gate" and into the group.

He decided to say nothing unless someone addressed him, and nobody did. They talked amongst themselves, jostling and pushing one another in an example of grossly bad table etiquette, and Rex noticed that Theran had an awful habit of snatching bites from the plates of others. Theran didn't take a seat, but instead paced around the table and snatched nibbles here and there. They did not appear to mind, and Caden even offered food from his hand, which Theran took gently if gracelessly.

"You could give him his own plate," Rex finally commented after Theran's third attempt to steal food from him had failed.

"Oh we'd love to," Caden growled, "Damned server droid doesn't recognize him. He's not in its program."

"And you didn't think to tell anyone about it?" Rex asked, surprised.

"Tell nothing. They barely let us keep him. What would they do if he started being a nuisance to them?" Volk spoke now, his tone decidedly one of loathing, "Soon as he starts bothering the higher ups, they'll be taking him away. Or, worse, putting him in with the beasts of burden."

"He'd eat a saddle animal alive," Garm put in, "and that would be the end of him."

"The end of us, you mean," Caden corrected, then added for Rex's benefit, "He's one of us. I'd sooner let myself be put in a cage than put Theran in it."

"Fair point," Garm conceded, "But I seem to remember you not being so fond of him yourself once upon a time. Give 'em time, the bastards will get used to him and they'll see what he's good for soon enough."

 _Soon enough, nothing._ Rex thought.

He knew he had the second step in sight. The squad clearly loved Theran, and suffered him to eat from their plates rather than cause trouble on his behalf. They were trying, in their own uneducated way, to fit in and avoid getting themselves in trouble. But it was little wonder Theran went around nipping at other clones. He was a growing beastie, anybody could see it. There was no way he was getting enough food from his "family" to sustain him. Clones weren't given extra rations, and couldn't spare much as a result. Theran was going hungry, and taking his frustrations out on others.

Rex knew how to solve that problem. And nobody would take issue with him taking action. It was his place to make sure his men got what they needed. If Theran was truly a member of _Fortune Actual_ and not merely the pet he appeared to be, then he was one of Rex's men now.

No sooner had Rex left the table than he set about putting in the request for an update of the droid's programming, so that it would recognize Theran as someone who belonged and should be fed. He wondered that nobody had done it already, but realized belatedly that he hadn't thought to, so why should anybody else? Surprising the squad hadn't gone after him for that mistake too.

But they didn't seem to see him as the ultimate figure of authority in their world. And, for what it was worth, they were partially right. But Rex did have charge over some things. And they ought to know that. They'd been trained, every one of them had graduated. Rex wasn't sure why they didn't seem to see him, or why they acted as though the whole world was strange to them. But they did.

As usual, Rex put 'why' on the bottom of his list. That things stood as they did was undeniable, why they did that wasn't much Rex's concern, except when it came to altering conditions.

But he knew he couldn't stop there. Couldn't just do one thing today and call it good enough. He didn't have the time for it. So, without telling them that he was solving their Theran feeding problem, Rex sent orders for them to come down to one of the hangar bays.

"Today we're going to clean and maintain these six airships," Rex did not remind them that normally there were maintenance engineers who did specifically that.

Nor did he say that such engineers would be checking their work afterward. They had training to do basic maintenance work, he knew. And one of them was a mechanic. So he was confident that they could do the work reasonably well. The point was, would they work with him?

"We?" Volk questioned.

"We," Rex confirmed, "and that means your little bird too."

Theran squeaked, aware he had been spoken of and apparently delighted with the attention.

It was the only question the squad asked. Rex let Volk delegate tasks, splitting up the squad to be as efficient as possible. Himself, he worked alongside Doc, the mechanic. He found Doc easy going and amiable. If he feigned a lack of knowledge, Doc was willing to fill in the gaps in his education, and did not become patronizing or make jokes at Rex's expense as a result of the questions.

He also discovered that Doc was a talkative one. Doc readily told stories about his experiences on Onithera, and about each of his squadmates. Things that hadn't made it into the report because they weren't "essential information". Some of the stories Rex thought must have been omitted from the reports by the clones of _Fortune Actual_ themselves. Through Doc, he got to know the squad in a way that no report could ever do for him. Their likes, dislikes, the way they responded to the unexpected, the unknown, how to read how they were reacting from little habits they had.

He learned how Volk had ferociously defended a poisoned and possibly dying Damyu, how Tavis had completed his first successful hunt, how Garm had nearly lost his life in protecting Doc from a flash flood (and this after risking life and limb for Caden, whom he had no love for at the time), the conflict which had once existed between the two fireteams, how Caden had trained Theran and so on.

It was after they were finished and Rex had dismissed them that it finally dawned on him.

He liked these clones. And wanted, more than anything, for them to survive. They were courageous, intelligent and their ability to work together was second to none. The war needed squads just like that one, with everyone doing his job willingly and to the best of his ability. It might have been a bunch of losers, but together they could do anything they set out too. If only Rex could harness that energy, get them to calm down and follow outside instruction. He didn't just want to succeed for himself. He wanted _Fortune Actual_ to succeed for its own sake.


	36. Moment of Truth

"I don't know what to do."

It was a difficult admission for Volk. It was especially hard to make such an admission to Tavis. No longer was it because Volk didn't respect Tavis. Now it was because he did. And also because Tavis seemed much smaller than before, laid up in bed. When he looked at Volk, his eyes seemed distant, like he wasn't really there somehow. It scared Volk. It told him that, even with medical treatment, it was possible that Tavis wasn't going to come back from this. If he didn't that meant one thing to Volk. That he was responsible for whatever happened to _Fortune Actual_ from here on out.

Even on Onithera, it was not a responsibility he wanted. Here on board a ship, it was one he feared that he could not handle. Making his problems worse was Phisher, who had returned to the ranks. Somehow, he had persuaded multiple parties that this was where he wanted to be, and that he could be effective among the clones. It had been somewhat presumptuous, Volk thought, Phisher assuming that he was welcome to return to the squad after everything.

Pressured by Rex from one angle, Phisher from another, the squad from still another and the nerve-wracking surroundings he found himself in, Volk had finally broken and come to Tavis for help.

"What do you think is best for the squad?" Tavis asked.

That he asked instead of telling sent a chill down Volk's spine. It was a test. Or perhaps a message that Tavis wasn't going to be the leader anymore, that now it was up to Volk. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. Independent, strong willed, stubborn Volk had been worn down into asking for direction at great cost to his personal opinion of himself. And he wasn't getting the answer he sought.

"They don't seem bothered by Phisher," Volk said slowly, "and I don't believe he means any harm."

"So what do you do about him?" Tavis asked, then waited for Volk to not answer the posed question before answering it, "Nothing. He wants to follow you for the rest of his life, let him. You know he's effective, an asset and not a burden. And the squad harmony isn't upset by him. Phisher is a non-issue."

Volk nodded quietly. Easy to say. Not so easy for him to think that.

"And how do you feel about Captain Rex?" Tavis asked.

That was a more difficult question. Volk had once been quick to judge, but he'd made a mistake with Tavis, one he did not care to repeat. He was slower in his assessments of character these days.

"He seems like he's trying to help," Volk replied finally, "He's been giving us assignments, but it's good. It's been keeping us busy, keeping Damyu and Theran out of trouble. I don't have to keep an eye on them much when they're busy working. But he's... I dunno... a bit..."

"Like you," Tavis said, "He came loaded with confidence, but now he's unsure."

"Unsure? Seems to pretty certain to me," Volk said.

"You and I both know that what you show on the outside isn't what you feel inside. Not all the time anyway. So what do you want?"

Volk balked at the question. What he wanted wasn't the issue. He avoided answering by saying nothing.

"You want to trust him?" Tavis pressed, edging Volk into an answer.

"It'd be nice," Volk admitted quietly.

Before anyone but Tavis, Volk would have denied it. Denied that he wanted or needed to trust anyone. But with Tavis, Volk found he couldn't lie. And concealing the truth was absolutely out of the question. He got the impression that Tavis would see right through him.

"So let him know that," Tavis said, like it would be just that easy, "He's shown you that he wants to help you, you can show him that you want to trust him."

Volk sort of stared, like Tavis had just suggested he grow wings and fly.

"Not in words. Neither you nor he put stock in words. Use your actions. He can see, and he'll respect that. You don't have to lose his respect to ask for his help. I told Phisher something awhile back, and now I want to tell you the same thing. Your problem is that you never learned to trust. But you'll have to learn it now. Captain Rex may not have been on that planet with us, but he is like us. He's been hurt, he's been betrayed, he's fought for his own, and seen men die. Spend more time thinking about the similarities than the differences, Volk. And trust him, if that's what you want to do. End of lecture. Now get outta here, the squad's probably looking for you."

"Yes sir."

Volk had a pretty clear idea on how to show his trust. But he wasn't sure it was a good idea. He wasn't confident in it. But, as Tavis had said, he had to trust someone. And he knew of only one way to show that trust. Only one way to test it, and to be sure.

He returned to the squad, who had been hovering around their bunks where he'd left them. He had told them to stay put until he got back, and stay they had, just as he would have expected. Unfortunately, they couldn't spend their entire lives at stay. Unlike droids, they couldn't be put on a shelf until needed. They were very much alive, and required experiences and interactions to keep them in condition. Condition for what? Well, fighting Volk supposed. But also for not fighting.

"How's Tay?" Doc asked for the rest of them.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Volk replied.

"And how well is that?" Doc wanted to know.

"About as well as he is."

Volk evaded further questioning by leading off towards the mess hall and breakfast. Yesterday evening, Theran had gotten his own serving of dinner for the first time. Volk had no doubt about whether or not Rex had something to do with it. Rex hadn't volunteered anything, and Volk hadn't asked.

Rex was already present, at the table _Fortune Actual_ had been assigned. Volk watched the others carefully as they crossed the room and joined Rex. They didn't hesitate to come right up to him, and milled around only briefly, asking and receiving permission to join him without exchanging words.

Theran quickly tried to snatch food from Rex (the surest sign Theran liked someone) and was thwarted. Hissing his disappointment, Theran proceeded to eat his own food in ravenous gulps. He was easily the noisiest eater in the place, but that was no great feat.

"Volk, you comin'?" Garm asked when Volk lingered by the door.

"No," Volk replied, "I'm not hungry. You go ahead."

Garm looked like he might get up and follow Volk. But when Volk left, nobody came after him. Good. Very, very good. Volk decided to actually take a walk around the ship, and try to get in touch with what it was specifically about it that set him on edge, that he didn't like. Well, let's face it, that he was afraid of. It shortly came to his attention that the something was _everything_.

There was no sun, no moon. No wind, and no scents blown in on it. No sounds of tiny animals scurrying about, letting you know with their little noises that they did not feel threatened and so there was little chance that anything dangerous had passed this way recently. No cover like trees or tall grasses. No way to read what anybody was thinking or feeling, clones in the hallways usually wore their armor and thus concealed their expressions and how they were moving. Volk had learned to take in the most minute details, and the broader, more expansive gestures for communication went right over his head. He missed them entirely. He didn't know where anyone was going, or what they meant to do when they got there. And droids. Droids wandered the halls like roving scavengers. He hated the sight of them, the sound of them. Most of all, he hated how they moved, in a completely unnatural and therefore unpredictable fashion. And the feeling of motion of the ship. Oh, you weren't supposed to feel it, artificial gravity and all that. But it wasn't a planet turning, living and breathing beneath your feet. It was a movement you could sense without feeling it, and there was a cold unnaturalness to that too. Volk realized that he hated space travel, and everything to do with it.

He had never taken conscious notice of the fear he felt every time he stepped on board a ship. It expressed itself in tension, aggression, shortness of temper, inattentiveness to superiors and so on. Volk hadn't even admitted to himself that he _could_ feel fear. Fear was weakness. Fear was something to be ashamed of. And fear of space travel was utterly inexcusable. To admit such a fear was to fail at being what he was designed to be. It was to be rendered useless and unwanted. Of course, denying it had the same effect in the end, as his behaviors became increasingly problematic. Volk didn't know that though.

But he did know now why he had been able to understand Tavis' fear of water, why his first impulse to kill any with weakness had been silenced. He had a fear of his own. One he was now able to recognize in himself, given a moment to do so. Having seen it, now he had only to manage it.

He had no one to help him. He was too proud, and too independent. Even though he might have accepted offered help from Tavis, he would not ask for it. Not for himself. But he didn't need it either. He had learned a lot on Onithera. In fact, one might even say he'd been reborn there. He was not the same as he had been before. He was a lot stronger, most especially inside, where it really counted.

Volk had never been one to take the easiest way out. The easiest thing to do was just to keep cringing, waiting for the ordeal to be over. To just hold on and endure it. But he had sense enough to know that the longer he clung to the fear, the stronger it got, and the more it overwhelmed him.

And so, he confronted it. He found the loudest portion of the ship with a view of the stars that he could, and stayed there. Looking out at space, there was a tremendous feeling of emptiness. Aloneness. Not because space was void, it wasn't. It was full of things, mostly stars. But there was so much space between them, and so many of them were devoid of life. It was so huge, and so nearly empty out there. And Volk was surrounded by that emptiness, by that loneliness. He didn't like it.

But he knew the key. He didn't have to like it. Merely accept it. As he had accepted every challenge Onithera threw at him. He'd faced them, gotten through, survived. He didn't think of Onithera as being so much a negative or positive experience. It simply was. That was what he had to come to with space travel. It wasn't good or bad. It just was. That was easier said than done.

But he knew, from experience, that it could be done.

* * *

Rex wasn't sure what it meant when Volk refused to approach the table. He had been pleased to see the squad readily approaching, even without Volk to lead them, though he had misinterpreted their hesitation to sit, thinking it was wariness as opposed to respect. But they did join him, Garm sat right next to him in his usual spot. They also included Rex in their conversation, asking his opinions and telling stories specifically for his benefit, and encouraging him to share a few of his own. He'd also started to notice that the supposed fights he'd seen were actually more of play, there seemed to be no malice in them, and it was always clear who was the dominant and who was the submissive in the exchange. All in all, they were actually a lively and sociable bunch.

"Does Volk often go off by himself?" Rex asked eventually.

"Not hardly," Garm said, "And almost never since we got on this ship."

"I don't think he likes me much," Rex commented.

"You kidding?" Damyu piped up, "If he didn't like you, you'd know it."

"That's right," Doc agreed, "Volk doesn't like somebody, he's never shy about showing it."

"Practically tried to rip Tavis apart before they finally started getting along," Onoff grunted.

Phisher nudged Onoff with his elbow and he shut up. Rex noted the exchange, but did not ask about it. Something had transpired that they didn't want to discuss. Probably rather like how Rex would never mention that the entire squad had ganged up on him and beat him senseless. If he ever did, they'd all be in serious trouble. Potentially himself included for having let it happen.

"You think he'd put up with you hanging around if he didn't think much of you?" Caden put in, "He doesn't like you, it don't matter who you are, he'll put you in your place."

"He's a bit of a lone wolf," Damyu said, "But you get used to him."

Rex decided to accept that, at least for the moment. It certainly felt better than the other possibility, which was that Volk was rejecting him entirely, and that rejection was generating a distance between Volk and the rest of _Fortune Actual_.

And then Rex realized something more profound. It happened in an instant, and he didn't see it coming.

Someone being careless about where they were walking stepped on the end of Theran's tail. Theran, who had been lounging on the floor near the table, leaped to his feet and let out a yowl, swinging around to snap at the offender when they didn't immediately get off him.

Rex, remembering what Tavis had said as well as his own experience in combating the squad, put a hand on Garm's arm, holding the guardian in check. He felt Garm's tension, a fury rippling through him, suppressed only because he was being held down. But Rex hadn't counted on Caden's reaction.

Caden was on his feet in an instant, and Rex knew things were about to get really bad. Theran was part of Caden's team, and the chick was also his to protect, raise and train. Rex felt a brief flash of utter terror. He hadn't worked much with Caden, and hadn't the faintest idea as to whether the leader of _Fortune Actual_ 's fireteam one would listen if he talked. But, with Caden on the other side of the table, Rex had no time to reach him. Not before a fight started.

It was exactly the situation Rex had most feared. And he had one chance to stop it.

"Caden," Rex got to his feet, preparing to enter the fray if there chanced to be one, "Sit."

Caden swung to look at Rex on hearing his name. Wordlessly, still seething, he obeyed. Rex turned to the offender and admonished him to watch where he was walking and be more careful. He didn't add that the stupid klutz could just as easily have stepped on a mine and killed himself and everyone near him. Or that he should never assume he was safe just because he wasn't in a battlefield.

Rex would chew on him later. Now wasn't the time.

Theran made a little mewling sound and went to Caden to be comforted and reassured. And then he rolled his eyes in the direction of the man who'd stepped on him and hissed at the retreating figure.

It was then that Rex knew what Volk had done. Had been doing since they arrived. That an incident just like that had not occurred already was a testament to Volk's alertness, and his control over his squad. Volk had just entrusted the squad's safety (not to mention everyone around them) to Rex.

No halfway about it. Volk had given Rex complete responsibility and authority. And the squad had responded. Rex didn't realize he'd been charged with their care and education by anyone save Anakin, and hadn't known just how much they accepted him.

And they accepted him completely.

For the first time, he knew that they could be saved. That they would be alright. He could control them, which meant he could tell them how to behave, and they would do it. It would take time for their habits to change, for them to learn new survival behaviors for their instincts to activate. But it could be done.

He could do it. _Fortune Actual_ would have a future.


	37. Home

"They're a rough bunch, don't like taking instruction. They're stubborn and standoffish, and don't play well with others. But they're also highly organized amongst themselves, showing more coordination and cooperation as a group than I've ever seen. In the wrong hands, they'll always be a disaster waiting to happen. But they're far from unpredictable or unstable. On the other hand, they don't have much respect for the GAR, and none at all for the Republic. They're not even especially impressed by Jedi," Rex reported solemnly

"They sound like my kind of troopers," Anakin remarked.

"I was afraid you were going to say that," Rex sighed.

"We're short of manpower," Anakin excused himself, "They're unattached. We could always use another good squad, right?" he didn't wait for an answer, "So I'll have them assigned permanently to you," which in turn meant they were assigned to Anakin himself, "So go give them the good news."

"Yes sir," Rex said.

"Oh, and Rex-"

"Sir?"

"Good work."

Rex dipped his head, acknowledging the praise. Anakin did not offer praise lightly. It dawned on Rex only now that Anakin might have had his doubts about _Fortune Actual_ 's rehabilitation.

The danger signals from the squad were all but gone now, and Rex felt fine with leaving Volk in charge, under clear instructions as to how he was expected to conduct himself and how the squad as a whole were meant to behave. Rex had noticed that much of the tension Volk had been expressing had disappeared, though Rex didn't know why that was and could only assume it had something to do with Volk's new found trust in Rex as his leader.

The only question that now remained was that of Tavis. And that was something Rex had no say in. He'd visited Tavis earlier today, to thank him for his help, but Tavis had not even looked at him. His eyes had been open, but he hadn't appeared to see or hear Rex.

It had been explained to Rex that Tavis had inhaled something toxic on Onithera, but it wasn't clear to him what it had been, or what it was doing or if it was fatal. He got the impression that the medical droids he spoke with hadn't a clue either, and that was disturbing to him.

What was clear, however, was that Tavis had been operating with sheer willpower and, his goal having been completed, he had nothing left to fight for. He was spent, and seemed to be fading.

It didn't seem right somehow, that Tavis would die after having succeeded in what he was sent out to do. And Rex would prefer to have Tavis at the head of _Fortune Actual_ rather than Volk. Volk was edgier than Tavis, more inclined to fight, to lash out. Besides, if Tavis didn't return to the squad, they would be a man short. And who could possibly be put with the squad as it was now?

Things were improving with the squad, but any ordinary clone would be ripped to shreds by the end of the week if they were forced to actually work and live with them. The pack was too unpredictable, too aggressive. They might be able to behave in a social setting where they were given their own personal space bubble. But an odd one in their midst would be like giving a lamb to a pack of wolves.

It wouldn't be fair to the squad, or the unfortunate sheep. Nor was it fair to the army or even any squads who might be around _Fortune Actual_ in future. Really, they needed Tavis at the helm, to settle them and to fill out the ranks. Either that, or Rex was going to have to go to an extensive amount of trouble to find a compatible personality for the squad. He couldn't do that. There was a war on, after all, and he had his regular job too. He couldn't spend his life babysitting.

Only time would tell if Tavis would survive and be returned to the squad. For now, they would have to do without him. More important, they would have to do without Rex's personal attention. It was time for him to return to his regular duties, to let Volk manage the squad on his own. If they needed him, he'd be there, but he didn't believe they did need his direct guidance. Not anymore.

* * *

It was their first mission since Onithera. The planet below was swarming with Separatists, whose native government had reached out to the Republic before being totally suppressed. It was now the job of the GAR to go down and take that planet back.

 _Fortune Actual_ didn't need to worry about the whole planet, just their small hundred square mile piece of real estate. It was the job of General Skywalker to establish a foothold on the surface, and then deploy his troops to spread out and take the planet inch by inch.

For the initial assault, _Fortune Actual_ would be side by side with other squads. After that, they would spread out, losing visual contact with their lieutenant, but staying in radio contact so that they could report any activity and be told whether or not to engage, if they should wait for another squad first, that kind of thing. But they would mostly be on their own, just the way they liked it.

Recently promoted Corporal Volk was acting as squad sergeant, and wearing a second hat as the head of fireteam _Actual_ , which consisted of Privates Doc, Garm and Damyu. Now PFC Caden was heading up fireteam _Fortune_ , composed of Privates Onoff and Phisher and unranked member Theran.

They were short one man, and had a rookie in their midst. Their medic was actually a mechanic with field experience, and the closest thing they had to a sniper was Phisher, who was actually more skilled at getting in close without being noticed. They had a man whose orders you had to be careful of, because recall was a virtual impossibility. And they had a leader who lived by instinct rather than regulations. This was _Fortune Actual_.

Bean was their pilot, and they shared the airship with multiple squads. With the shields down, they couldn't see out. Shots fired around them, and they knew any one of those shots could end this thing before it even began. The airship lurched, taking a light hit, jolting but harmless. Closer in, the airship gunners responded by attacking right back now they were in range.

Tension filled the air, but not fear. Never fear. GAR troopers weren't afraid to fight, or to die. If they were afraid of anything, it was that they might die without ever getting the chance to fight. There had been some trepidation from other squads about climbing in with the Onitheran, some thought it might attack them, others wondered if it might become upset in the closed, dark place with shots flying all around. If it panicked, it could do them a lot of harm.

But Theran was quiet, leaning his weight against Caden to help him balance with each buck of the airship, his luminous eyes glowing in the near darkness. And then the lights came on.

"Shields go in thirty," Bean called out.

Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds and the airships ahead of them would be cleared out, the shields would go up, and they would open fire at any threat, clearing the way for both their ship and the ships behind them. They weren't doing that now because there was too great a risk that they might hit their own ships. They had to wait for those to clear out, just as those ships had waited for the ones before them.

Volk turned to Caden, who nodded curtly. His men were ready.

" _Fortune_ goes with us," Caden said.

" _Actual_ survives," Volk replied.

"Shields go in ten," Bean announced, and then counted down unnecessarily.

The moment he'd said 'thirty' every man aboard had been counting down the seconds in his head. Of course, it didn't matter what their count was, since he was the one opening the doors. But it made no difference. They were all in synch. A final verbal warning and the shields were gone.

As the lieutenant had told them before they left, squads lined off, arranging themselves so that they were not in each other's way, and so that the majority of them were nearly impossible targets to hit. Theran flattened to the floor, he hadn't learned to shoot. Yet.

A blast hit right at the lip of the flooring, and one clone was knocked from his perch. He fell the fifteen feet to the ground, bounced, rolled, disappeared from view. But he was not dead, as bright flashes coming from his position indicated. He was up and firing and on his way to meet up with the airship when it dropped. That was the advantage of knowing the coordinates where everything was supposed to happen before you dropped.

Theran became agitated. It had been Caden who dropped. But he didn't even require a quiet word to keep him from jumping out after Caden. His superior sense of smell and hearing told him where Caden was, which way he was going. The distance between them was closing, and that was fine.

The airship hovered just above the ground and the troops unloaded. Without word or greeting, Caden rejoined his squad. He exchanged a brief glance with Volk. The lieutenant was in charge of how the squad as a whole was deployed, but Volk and Caden were responsible for what they did and which man went where. Sure they were still in synch, they moved out towards the minimally available cover of what had been a city but was now a ruins thanks to the Separatist droids and their tanks.

Speaking of tanks... Volk glanced up towards the next oncoming ship. This one was bringing a walker and its troops. _Fortune Actual_ was meant to secure a place to drop the tank. Tanks were heavy and powerful once they landed, but in the air they were virtually helpless, and so were their crews.

The squad spread out, Volk and Caden occasionally calling out corrections or aiming their men towards a specifically troublesome bunch of droids. There were no Separatist tanks at this location, which was part of why it had been chosen. It was a soft spot in their defenses, or so scouts had reported.

For the most part, the soldiers didn't require further instructions. They knew their job, had been told the part of the plan that concerned them, and they went out with zeal to claim the patch of ground they had been told was their own. They moved in less like invaders, and more like owners, here to run off the intruders in their territory. This, far as they were concerned, was Republic soil. Every square inch they were meant to be taking rightfully belonged to their masters.

This small difference in thinking didn't alter the plan any, merely its execution. Some brilliant mind had noticed that possessive instincts provoke a more aggressive response. There's nothing like a little 'this land is ours' to make one willing to go to any lengths. Defending a position is typically easier than attacking it, but not only because of the physical differences. Being already dug in, having the best vantage points, things like that give advantage. But the biggest one is that of the mind. The confidence of belonging is hugely different from the desire to belong.

To the clones, this piece of ground was theirs. That they had never seen it before in their lives made no difference. It was something no one had to teach Theran, he picked up on it from the energies of those around him. And his own attacks were ferocious enough to match.

The droids had never seen anything like Theran, and were not programmed to recognize him as a threat inherently. Brazenly, Theran dashed across the ground and tackled the first droid he came to, leaping high and grasping it with his hind toes, raking through the armor plating with his front claws and then sliding his narrow beak in and pulling out cables and wires with squeaks of glee.

The droid didn't have time to process what hit it. And Theran had jumped the second one almost before it realized he was there at all, much less a threat. Theran had advantage of total surprise, but he was also fast, and growing more powerful by the day. He attacked with vigor, but it was more game to him than anything. To him, everything was still a game.

He understood that it could have deadly consequences, that those blasters were dangerous, but his youthful arrogance forbade him to be fearful, and he threw himself bodily into the danger and tore it to pieces like a destructive gremlin.

The walker was down now, and had taken its first step forward. The clones darted out of the way, knowing they were invisible to the driver when they were right underneath the walker. The large canon muzzle of the walker turned, found its very first target of the day, and fired.

Theran unleashed a roar of triumph, knowing full well that the first task had been completed. The walker was down, another was just arriving under another squad's protection, and soon the site would only need mopping up. And then the clones would set out to take smaller outposts, eliminate any survivors they came across, and finish claiming their space.

Across the battlefield, Anakin, Ahsoka and Rex were making good progress towards their objective, and gave no thought to what went on behind them. They couldn't afford it, as any distraction could prove fatal. Likewise, Fortune Actual gave them not so much as a glance, trusting fully that they were where they were supposed to be, doing what they were supposed to do.

Here, in this violent setting, where any of them could be maimed or killed in an instant if they took a wrong step, or if any of their brothers took that same misstep, where killing and fighting were the only way to survive, _Fortune Actual_ was, at long last, home.

They had won their lives on the plains of Onithera, earned their right to survive in its rivers and marshes, claimed their place among their kind on board ships, and at last come to the place every clone knew was his birthright, the place where they would fight, and perhaps die, for the greater good, for the Republic, or (for some of them) just for their own kind.

The battlefield was a place of cruelty, sudden violence and inescapable death. But it was also the place for survivors, for those who loved a good fight more than anything, for those who were calm and accepting of both death's reality and fiction. Few would find their home in such a setting.

But _Fortune Actual_ did just that. Because fortune was with them, they survived. And found their way... _Home_.

 **The End... or maybe just The Beginning**

* * *

 ** _A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, hope you enjoyed it and see you next time. For those of you interested in the further adventures of Fortune, the sequel to_ Lost Fortune** _ **is now uploaded. It is titled**_ **Survivors of Fortune** _ **.**_ _ **Goodnight everybody, hope to see you next time.  
**_


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